


Sharps and Accidentals

by Zizzani



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ADHD Lance, Alternate Universe - College/University, Cuban Lance, Deaf AU, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Female pronouns for Pidge, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Japanese Keith, M/M, Slow Burn, keith and lance attend music uni, keith and shiro are brothers, keith is deaf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 105,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8277422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zizzani/pseuds/Zizzani
Summary: Keith is a talented up and coming violin virtuoso. Lance hates him immediately.Or an AU in which Lance and Keith both attend the same music university. Keith is deaf. Lance is Trying™.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Soooooooo I've had this idea in my head for a while now and I finally sat down to type it.  
> I most wanted to explore ways of showing someone you love them without having the whole "BECAUSE I LOVE YOU" moment (not that it isn't great and I will be the first to throw myself under the bus and say that I LOVE that trope). 
> 
> So yeah. Lance plays piano, Keith is deaf, they both attend music school.
> 
> Also, if anyone wanted to offer themselves as a sensitivity reader, I'd be very grateful. I'm largely writing this out of my own experiences, so if anyone wants to volunteer some first hand experience to make this fic more appropriate then that'd be swell!
> 
> I hope you enjoy :D

Lance threw his head back as he downed his coffee, gulping like a man who hadn’t seen water in three weeks.

“Sheesh, man. You feeling okay?”

Hunk sits across from him, a look of sincere concerned painted on his face. Lance slams the empty coffee cup on the table with a resounding smack accompanied by a groan. He rubs his tired eyes; vision turning a little bleary as he stubbornly blinked away the sleep.

“M’fine, dude,” Lance mumbles. “I just gotta get this piece finished before Friday. Iverson’s been riding my ass about it for a month.”

Hunk shoots him a sympathetic look from across the table.

“Well you have had a whole month to do it, and you still left it ‘til the week before soooo…”

“Genius can’t be rushed!” Lance snaps.

Hunk just shakes his head solemnly, turning back to his own work.

Lance would be the first to admit that Hunk was a better composer than him. There was something about the way he seemed to just _slot_ the notes together like a 100 piece puzzle that Lance was eternally envious of. It was like watching the gears of a clock run. Hunk would sit for hours, methodically scrawling down cadences and note runs, occasionally cutting an entire eight bars before replacing it with something the Lance is sure he’s plucked straight out of a renaissance period film.

Lance’s own method is hopelessly slapdash in comparison. It was like he could hear the song in his head, but whenever he tries to get it down onto paper there was a dam between his internal symphony and the hand drawing the notes. Not to say that he _couldn’t_ compose. It just took a little longer than he’d like.

Hunk glances up at Lance again briefly before his eyes lock onto something just over Lance’s shoulder. His face immediately lights up into a smile, and he lifts a hand to wave good-naturedly. Lance is just about to ask whom Hunk was waving at when his question is answered by Shiro throwing himself into the chair next to him.

“Oooooh bad day?” Lance pounces.

Shiro lifts his head to offer Lance a weak smile.

“Long day,” he corrects. “Is that finished?”

He nods towards the coffee cup sitting innocently on the table. Lance lifts it and gives the empty cup a little shake.

“Sorry, buddy. Needed all the coffee I could get today.”

Shiro groans, letting his head loll backwards again.

“I _need_ some caffeine.”

“Ooh! I’ll go get some. I’ve been meaning to hit the café myself,” Hunk says, hopping out of his seat.

He raises one finger to silence Lance, who had opened his mouth ready to ask Hunk to pick one up for him too.

“Nuh uh, I think you’ve had enough for today,” Hunk says in his best authoritative voice. “I’m pretty sure you’re more coffee than human at this point.”

Lance sinks down in his seat, shoulders hunching and grumbling something about his right to energy drinks.

“What’ve you even been doing all day?” Hunk asks Shiro.

“I’ve been running around campus all day trying to finalise everything for my brother’s transfer. It’s been a complete nightmare with the board.”

Lance sighs dramatically.

He’s spent all summer hearing about Shiro’s virtuoso brother who was joining Altea University of Music and Technology. He’ll be in the year below him and Hunk, the same year as Pidge, who’s gained early access due to her genius. All summer, Lance has listened to Shiro droning on and oooon about how much they'll all love Keith, and how _good_ Keith is at violin, and how he can’t wait for everyone to meet him. I mean, Lance loves Shiro sure, and his voice is like melted chocolate, but there’s only so much one guy can take.

Out of curiosity, Lance had looked Keith up on Youtube. He’d hated him immediately.

Keith was an absolute natural at the violin, even a blind man could see that. The way his fingers moved across the strings was technically impeccable, and Lance felt white hot fury boil beneath his skin when Shiro mentioned that he’d only been playing for four years. _Four years._ Lance had been playing piano his entire _life_ and he was nowhere near as effortless as Keith was. All of his expertise came from cold raw hard work and a sense of stubbornness that could rival the Gods. It also didn’t help that Keith was kinda hot. Looks definitely seemed to run in the family, if the two brothers were anything to go by.

When Shiro told them that there was a possibility Keith would be sharing some of their classes due to the fast track program, Lance had had to bite back a genuine snarl. He hadn’t even met Keith yet, and he already knew that they were not going to get on. He was going to make it his mission to drive Keith into the dirt. Or leave him in the dust. Whichever one sounded more impressive.

“He’s starting soon, isn’t he?” Hunk enquires.

Shiro’s smile was fond and full of excitement.

“Yeah, next week. He arrived today though, so I thought we could all do something this weekend to maybe help him into it. He’s… Shy sometimes.”

Lance can barely repress a snort.

Ooooh what a delicate little flower Keith must be! Lance was going to step on him.

Hunk, however, beams at Shiro’s suggestion.

“That sounds great, Shiro! Pidge arrived yesterday so I know she’s gonna be up for something. That girl could find a party on the moon, I swear!”

Shiro chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly with the soft noise.

“I was thinking Voltron, maybe?”

Shiro’s hopeful smile wilts as a smirk hikes itself up Lance’s mouth.

“Ooooooooh,” Lance croons. “Going to ogle your girlfriend are we?”

Shiro frowns. He’s had this conversation a million times, but Lance knows he’ll always rise to the bait.

“Allura isn’t my girlfriend, Lance.”  
“Yet,” Hunk and Lance say simultaneously.

Shiro shoots a quick look of betrayal in Hunk’s direction.

“She’s my music partner. We work together.”

“No, you _woooork_ together. And you should Work From Home, if ya know what I mean,” Lance says with a comical wiggle of his eyebrows.

Shiro’s face contorts into the closest thing Lance has ever seen him come to a scowl. He gestures wearily at Lance as he turns to Hunk.

“How do you deal with this all the time?”

“Well… I mean, you DO kinda lika Allura,” Hunk reasoned.

Shiro gaped like a fish at the unexpected response.

“HA!” Lance points at Shiro’s triumphantly, ignoring the aggressive shushing of the library’s occupants.

“There! You see! Even Hunk knows!”

“What do you mean, even _I_ know?” Hunk cries indignantly. “I’m way more perceptive than you.”

Lance rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Hmmmmm, true.”

Credit where credit is due.

“Are you really going to sit there and lie to us, Shiro? I thought you were better than that!”

Shiro gives him a bored look.

“Very subtle reverse psychology, Lance. Really. But I’m not talking about this with you.”

“You liiiiiike her.”  
“Shut up.”  
“You’re not even denying i-“

“When did this become about me?” Shiro threw his hands up, as if he could ward Lance off with a flamboyant gesture. Foolish, really.

“When you tried to drag the rest of us on your date,” Lance answers immediately.

“It’s not,” Shiro hisses through gritted teeth. “A date. It’s a chance for Keith and Pidge to meet everyone and for us to get to know each other.”

“I think he’s hitting on me,” Lance loud-whispers to Hunk.

Shiro shakes his head in defeat, and Lance leans back in his chair, hooking his hands around the back of his neck, smile victorious.

“Hunk. Coffee. _Please._ ” Shiro says without looking up.

Hunk nods sympathetically and scampers off to the cafeteria. Lance watches him go, his heart yearning for another hefty dose of caffeine. His body yearns for sleep though, and a yawn forces itself out of his throat. Shiro looks up again, concern creeping into his dark eyes.

“You should really sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just want to finish these last few bars before I clock out,” Lance waves him off.

After a moment, Shiro gets to his feet, coming up behind Lance to read the sheet music over the tan boy’s shoulder. Shiro tilts one of the sheets a little more towards himself with a drag of his index finger, and Lance waits with baited breath as the older boy’s eyes scan the pages.

“This here,” Shiro says, tapping a four bar sequence near the coda. “Maybe repeat that but an octave higher? Give it a nice fade out.”

Lance scans the section Shiro had pointed at, the notes forming the melody in his mind. He feels a smile break out on his face.

“That’s it!”

Lance hurriedly scrawls the notes onto the empty bars before lifting the pages in front of him, a grin splitting his face.

“Thank you, Shiro!”

Shiro pats Lance affectionately on the shoulder before flumping back into his chair. Lance stuffs the pages into his bag and gathers up his pencils and he rushes to leave the library.

“I’m gonna go and try it right now!”

Shiro’s eyebrows pop up in surprise.

“Right now? Aren’t the music rooms closed this late?”

Lance can’t keep the impish grin off his face.

“Guess who’s got a spare set of keys.”

Shiro’s jaw drops in a mixture of both horror and awe. He looks torn between chewing Lance out and being genuinely impressed. Naturally, though, Shiro’s Full Dad Mode takes over, and he crosses his arms disapprovingly.

“I should report you to the Student Union.”

“Yeah, but you won’t.”

“Wanna bet on that?”

Lance actually looks offended.

“Shiro pleeeeeease! I won’t get another chance between classes tomorrow! I just wanna play it through _one time!”_

Shiro eyes him sceptically.

“Why can’t you just play it tomorrow before class?”

Lance scoffs at the suggestion.

“Do you know how long I have been awake? I have very literally missed out on beauty sleep to finish this music, and now you’re not even going to let me play it? My skin doesn't just look this good without proper TLC! It needs toning, Shiro! I can _feel_ a blackhead forming.”

Shiro just rolls his eyes tiredly. Lifting a hand, he jabs it threateningly in Lance’s direction.

“Once. You can play it through, _once._ I’m giving you half an hour and then I’m sending security down there.”

Lance huffs loudly.

“You are such an old man.”  
“Lance, the music rooms are closed for the safety of the university. There’s a lot of valuable equipment in there. That's why they remain _locked_ after hours.”

Lance waves his hand, not even bothering to look at Shiro as he pulls his jacket on over his arms.

“Yeah yeah it’s my future and the future of my classmates, yadda yadda, I’ll be careful. Will that appease The Fun Police?”

Shiro looks like he wants to bite something back at that fun police comment, but apparently decides he’s too exhausted. Instead, he nods curtly at Lance, adding on a warning, “ONE play through,” as Lance leaves.

Lance bounds out of the library with as much energy as someone on a 30-hour bender can manage. The music rooms aren’t far from the library, but they’re far enough that in his fatigued state, Lance’s legs begin to ache a little. Upon arrival, it doesn’t take him long to turn the security cam the other way and slip in through the front door. He pockets the spare key, making sure to zip it carefully in the tiny pocket inside his jacket. Opening the door, Lance opts not to turn the house lights of the hall on. Wouldn’t want to attract security now. So he approaches the grand piano forte in the middle of the hall, flicking his phone torch on and angling it towards the sheet music rest. Fishing in his bag, Lance pulls out the sheet music. It’s slightly crumpled from where he’d shoved it in the satchel in haste, but he smoothes it out as best he can before placing it on the rest.

Taking a deep breath, Lance lets his fingers wander over the keys, coaxing the gentle melody out of the piano, weaving it into the silence surrounding him. The notes flow smoothly, softly, entangling with one another as Lance’s fingers glide over the ivories. Lance feels like he can see notes dancing with one another, taking each other’s hands an interacting like old friends, family members, lovers. The melody picks up pace, his hands fluttering across the breadth of the keys and the piece reaches it’s crescendo, and though he knows it’s bad technique, Lance’s whole body rocks with the energy that passes from his heart, down his arms, to reach the instrument beneath him. The melody climaxes, and Lance feels his whole being ignite, the music easing through him like the blood in his veins.

He loves this. This feeling. Of pouring your heart into something and _hearing_ how it sounds. Lance feels like when he plays, he can hear the music of his own soul.

He reaches the last four bars, the ones Shiro helped him compose, and Lance can feel a satisfied smile creeping up his face. When his fingers leave the last note, it lingers in the air, vibrating in the stillness of the empty hall.

Lance feels his breath shoot out of him with a _whoosh,_ and his shoulders sag.

He checks his watch absently, still basking in the afterglow of the piece. The dimly lit dial reads 00:23.

Shit. Shiro was going to alert security soon.

Lance jumped up from the piano, almost ripping the sheet music in his flurry of nervousness and excitement. He snatches his phone off the piano top, dousing the torch as he sprints to the exit. Lance slips quietly back out into the darkness. He checks to make sure the door is locked behind him. He’s not a complete idiot after all. Shiro wasn’t lying when he said that there was expensive equipment in the music rooms, and Lance was _not_ going to be responsible for someone else losing all their work. That would just, MAJORLY suck.

He cast a quick glance around for any security that might be lingering before sidling away from the front doors. He reaches up under the camera to put it right again. Not that anyone would really notice if he didn’t, it was just habit at this point. On his way back to campus, Lance thinks about the piece he composed.

It’s good; he’ll happily admit that. It has a nice rhythm, and the flow is even. Shiro’s suggestion really helped the ending too, but the more Lance thinks about it, the more the tiny imperfections nag at him. Was that triplet really necessary? Perhaps a shift in key would pull everything together? Was the piece too boring?

Lance is so wrapped up in his own head that he doesn’t notice the other person walking towards him until they collide. The stranger’s shoulder bumps his with enough force to throw him off balance, and Lance spins theatrically as he wobbles to right himself. The stranger doesn’t notice though, just keeps walking.

“Hey!” Lance shouts after him.

The stranger doesn’t look back. Lance narrows his eyes at the guys retreating form. His hair is way too long in the back. Some stupid kind of mullet. But Lance’s eyes drift over his ears, and he realises that the guy is wearing headphones.

“HEY!” he yells again.

Lance reaches into his bag, pulling out an old draft of the music and wastes no time screwing it up into a ball and lobbing it as hard as he can. It hits the stranger square in the back of the head, and he whirls around in surprise.

Lance starts a little. The guy’s eyes are an indiscernible colour in the night, but Lance would guess that they’re dark. Though that could just be because his bangs are way too long and fall into his face. And… Okay, well. Sure. He’s _pretty._ What Lance can make out of him anyway. He has high cheekbones and a sharp chin, which is somehow accommodating his terrible choice of haircut. Which would all be fine and well if he wasn’t wearing- Dear God, where those fingerless gloves???

Lance feels the ‘douchebag’ checkbox in his head immediately tick itself. And yet he can’t help but feel like he’s seen the guy before. The dark hair, the dark eyes, the heart-shaped face…

Lance pushes these thoughts to the back of his mind, focusing on the task at hand.

“I said _HEY!”_ he hollered across the small space between them. “Did you not hear me?”

The guy with dark eyes just looks confused.

“Sorry,” he says. His voice is deeper than Lance was expecting. “I didn’t hear you.”

Lance seethes. Was this guy taking the piss??

“Maybe you should take your headphones out at watch where you’re going then?” he barks.

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, as the guy’s expression immediately hardens. Not that Lance really cares. This guy was being an asshole and he knew it.

“Sure,” the guy spits out.

Lance is surprised at the venom in his tone. But when the stranger makes no move to remove his headphones, Lance’s anger boils up and out of his throat.

“I don’t see you doing it!”

“I can look where I’m going.”

Lance snorts derisively.

“Obviously not, since you bumped into me. Seriously, are you blind?”

The guy bares his teeth for a split second, before his expression melts into something that’s uncomfortably impassive.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not blind.”

Then something very strange happens. The guy presses his palm against his chest for half a second before pressing his index finger against his mouth and drawing it quickly in a circle back to his ear. Lance is… kinda lost for words to be honest. What was this guy’s deal?

Without another word, the dark-haired stranger turns on his heel and makes off towards the other block of student housing.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going, asshole??” Lance screeches after him.

As if to prove a point, the guy reaches up at take his headphones out, not even bothering to look back. Lance practically hisses. Now he _knows_ the guy is just ignoring him.

He’s about to go after him, he really is. He doesn’t know if it’s the tiredness making him grouchy (probably), the comedown from the dangerous caffeine kick he’d been on, or if the stranger was just too much of a dick this evening, but Lance feel furious. He’s all but taken a step after the guy when his phone buzzes. Pausing in his attack, Lance pulls out his phone to check the screen. A text from Hunk reads that he’s gotten back to the flat and is worried that Lance isn’t there yet. Lance sighs, lifting a hand to rub his drooping eyelids. Finally, he decides that tonight is not his night.

Whoever this guy is, Lance will probably see him around campus. He can teach him a proper lesson about respect then, but for now he needs sleep. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Lance turns on his heels and stomps back towards his student halls.

He’s asleep before he even hit the mattress.

 

* * *

 

Lance wakes up to simultaneously the best and worst thing he could possibly imagine.

The best thing is that Hunk is knocking softly on his door, letting him know that he’s cooked pancakes and that they’re ready on the kitchen table whenever he wants to join them.

The worst thing is, well, that he’s awake.

Lance could have happily spent another ten hours in a coma, but noooooo. No, he had classes today. If Lance tried to skip, Hunk would probably use his flexibility against him and, being the loving caring Mother that he was, tie Lance into a pretzel before depositing him on Iverson’s doorstep.

Lance groans loudly, palming the sleep dust from his eyes. He showers and dresses quickly, padding into the kitchen to see Hunk sitting next to someone at least two heads shorter than him.

“Hey Lance!” Hunk chirps with a smile. “I saved you a plate of pancakes. Well, I say a plate. I maybe had one of them, or two. Possibly three, but you know, who’s counting?”

“Thanks, buddy,” Lance says groggily before sitting down to devour his feast.

“No hello for me?”

Lance blinks blearily up at the small person, and his face immediately breaks out into a smile.

“Pidge! Is that you??”

“The one and only,” Pidge replies with a smirk. “And Hunk had four of you pancakes.”

Lance lunges across the table to pull Pidge into a hug, ignoring their squawk of protest.

“Lance, cut that out! YES I’m happy to see you too, now please let go of me before I put my knee in maple syrup.”

Lance lets go of Pidge, beaming despite their disgruntled expression.

“I heard you arrived yesterday but I didn’t know you were joining us for breakfast!”

“We actually saw each other yesterday evening Lance,” Pidge says nonchalantly. “You were grumbling something about mullets, asked me about Matt, and then you passed out in Hunk’s arms. He had to put you to bed like a princess.”

Lance hums, unphased.

“That’s because Hunk is a handsome prince.”

“Awwww Lance,” Hunk coos.

Lance blows him as kiss as Pidge gags.

“It’s not even 9am yet,” she scowls.

Lance just chuckles.

“So what’s on the agenda today gang? Town?”

Hunk shoots him a disapproving glare.

“Uh no, you are not cutting class again. Not if you want to actually stay in this university.”

Lance rolls his eyes.

“What? I get top marks don’t I?”

“Yeah, but you ditch anymore classes and you’re gonna flunk out on attendance. Doesn’t matter how good your grades are,” Hunk warned.

Lance sighs in defeat. He doesn’t think his morning can get much bleaker until Pidge says, “And we’re meeting Keith today.”

Lance almost chokes on the bite of pancake he's chewing. Hunk slaps him so hard on the back that he sees stars, but it does little to dislodge the soft dough from his throat. After a solid minute of spluttering and another few crippling smack form Hunk, Lance is finally coherent enough to form a sentence.

“Today? Do we have to?”

Pidge quirks an eyebrow.

“What? Not looking forward to meeting one of the rising stars of the classical world?”

Lance could have spat.

“I’m going to find the journalist who wrote that line and put him in the ground.”

“Uh huh,” Pidge says boredly. “And I’m going to adopt a bright green lion.”

“Why does everyone think he’s so special anyway?” Lance whines. “I’ve seen loads of people that play just as good. Probably better.”

“Eerrr,” Hunk begins uncertainly. “Because Keith has that thing. You know”

Hunk flicks his own ear. Lance looks at him like he’s grown an extra head.

“No, I don’t know.”

Pidge and Hunk share an incredulous look, and Lance feels like he’s suddenly been left out of a very big in-joke.

“Guys?” he says uncertainly.

There’s a beat, and then Pidge erupts into what Lance swears is a witch’s cackle.

“Oh my gooood,” she wheezes, wiping a tear from her eye.

A tad dramatic, Lance thinks.

“How many times have you looked this guy up online? I can’t believe you don’t know about _his thing._ ”

“What thing?”

Lance can hear his voice rising in frustration. Desperately, he looks to Hunk.

“Hunk, WHAT THING?”

“Errrr…” Hunk taps his fingertips together nervously under Lance’s burning gaze.

The moment is interrupted by Lance’s phone ringing, and he swipes it off the table, still glaring at Pidge.

“What?” he says by way of greeting.

“And a good morning to you, too, Lance!” comes Shiro’s all-too-bright tone from the other end.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lance backtracks. “Morning Shiro.”

“Hey Lance,” Shiro’s tone softens. “I was just calling about meeting you guys with Keith after class.”

Lance supresses a groan. There’s really no getting out of this one, is there?

“Sure,” he grumbles down the receiver. “I finish at 6. I know Hunk finishes just before that, so we can grab Pidge and meet you guys by the SU?”

“Sounds perfect!” Shiro says cheerfullly. “I’m so excited for you guys to meet him. I know he gets a little nervous, so go easy on him, okay?”

The warning is specifically for Lance, and he knows that. And since it’s _Shiro_ that’s asking, he can’t really find it within himself to be an ass.

“Yeah fine, fine,” he concedes. “See you guys there.”

Shiro rings off, and Lance explains the plan briefly to Pidge and Hunk.

“Ooooh I can’t wait to meet him,” Pidge says gleefully. “I want to pick his brain on his techniques. Have you seen the way he shimmers his bow? How does he know how much to do it without cutting off the sound?”

“Er, he listens?” Lance suggests. Because it's obvious.

Pidge launches into another peal of giggles, and Lance finally decides he’s had enough. He throws his dishes into the washer and stomps out the kitchen, Pidge's laughter echoing down the hallway. Faintly he can hear Hunk trying to mend to peace.

“Pidge, we have to tell him!”

“Oh no you don’t, big guy! I wanna see how this one plays out!”

Lance grabs his bag and stomps all the way to his lessons.

The whole day passes in one long lumpy blur. He vaguely remembers Iverson yelling at him, but in all honesty that easily could have been any day this week so Lance doesn’t dwell on it.

When 6pm finally rolls around, he practically catapults himself out of class, power walking to the SU as fast as his long legs will take him.

Pidge and Hunk are already there, and they wave to him as he comes through the doors. He can see Shiro’s back as he makes his way over to the bar, the older boy’s broad shoulders poking up over the throng of people. Shiro iss talking to someone just off to his side, and Lance’s heart stutters when he realises it’s his brother.

He’s seen that face before. Those dark eyes, the dark hair. And not just in the Youtube videos he’s seen online.

No.

Lance immediately recognises Keith as the guy he’d bumped into the previous night. His mouth goes dry, and his limbs suddenly feel like they’re full of cement. And just like that, Lance feels himself drop into a pit of hatred and seething.

 _Of course_ Keith would turn out to be just the kind of asshole Lance thought he was. Of course he would. That was just fine! Just made it easier to hate him. Lance regarded Keith evenly as he approached the group. He gestured a lot when he spoke, Lance noticed. It wasn’t even sensible gestures, they were… odd. Sometimes Keith would touch his head, or his lips, ball his hands into fists or splay his fingers out. Lance can’t tell if Shiro is gesturing too, but the movement of his shoulders suggests that he is.

Which is odd because Shiro was usually a pretty still guy. Maybe this is something that only comes out around his brother?

Shiro keeps looking back and forth between Keith, and Pidge and Hunk. He looks like he's mediating or something. Lance feels a small thrill of triumph shoot through him at the idea. Has Keith already fucked up? Yesssss! That would make things so much easier for him without having to worry about Keith poaching his friends. Lance metaphorically rubs his hands together in glee.

“Well helloooooo there,” Lance says as he reached the group.

He drapes himself across the bar, pointedly fixing Keith with a look.

“Lance!” Shiro starts, oblivious as ever. “This is my younger brother, Keith. Keith, Lance.”

Lance extends his hand for Keith to shake. Okay, up close Keith was wayyyy prettier than he’s expecting, and Lance feels his internal temperature rack up a few degrees.

Keep it cool, Lance. Keep it cool.

Keith stares at his hand a moment before reaching out and shaking it and- Yep. Keith is definitely trying to break his fingers. Not that Lance can’t handle that. The guy is still wearing his headphones for crying out loud, no wonder Shiro’s having to wave at him to communicate.

Lance doesn’t let his smile waver. He draws his fingers back, resting his elbow on the bar as he hikes his smile higher. He sees Pidge and Hunk exchange a dubious look out the corner of his eye.

“Nice to finally meet you, Keith,” Lance says pleasantly. “Shiro’s been talking about you a lot. Like, allll summer.”

Shiro rubs the back of his neck bashfully as Keith glowers at him.

“What?” he says, with a shrug. “I get to be a proud older brother.”

The gesturing is back. Lance quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

“Lance,” Keith says.

His eyes rake over Lance in an overtly judgemental way, and Lance feels like he’s in one of those dreams where you turn up to class naked. Keith turns to Shiro and makes a singular gesture. And, alright. Lance has no idea what it is, but it _looks_ rude.

Turns out Lance’s guess is right on the money because Shiro gasps, scowling disappointedly at Keith.

“NO, Keith,” Shiro shakes his head firmly. He lifts his hand and makes what Lance can only assume is an alternative gesture as he says, “Lance.”

Keith just shrugs noncommittally. God, Lance hates him already.

“So!” Lance cries over the growing crowd. “You’re starting next week!”

It’s not really phrased like a question, and Lance feels pretty lame at his weak attempt to make small talk. Keith doesn’t seem too impressed either, but he grunts in response.

“Yeah, my first lesson is Music Theory 2.1.”

Lance notices Keith’s fingers twitch slightly, though he’s not gesturing anymore. It seems like his natural instinct is to wave his arms around randomly when he talks. Internally, Lance rages at the fact that he’s sharing his first lesson on Monday with _Keith_ of all people.”

“That’s the one I’m in,” he says in response.

Keith is staring at his mouth. It makes Lance feel extremely hot under the collar, and he can’t help but fidget. Keith probably fancies him, he reasons. Lance can’t blame the guy, falling for his charms already. He was only human, after all.

Lance wishes he could get Hunk and Pidge in on the conversation to offer him a reprieve, but they seem to be utterly immersed with each other. Shiro is eyeing the Lance and Keith, as if they might suddenly start a bar fight, but he is mostly nodding along to Pidge and Hunk’s rapid chatter.

Lance stares out over the crowd, turning a little away from Keith to survey the groups of people dotted around the student space.

“Shiro wants to take us to Voltron this weekend. You might get to meet his girlfriend,” Lance says as he continues turning his head to stare around the room.

He sees Shiro shoot him a look, but he ignores it.

Keith doesn’t reply at all though, and after a few seconds, Lance turns back around to frown at him. Yikes, conversation killer much?

“Sorry,” Keith says. There’s an emotion in his voice that Lance can’t pin down. “Can you repeat that slower?”

“Having trouble hearing?” Lance drawls.

Keith’s face darkens immediately.

 _“Good one,”_ he snarls, and Lance is mildly startled at the bitterness in the other boy’s voice.

He dials his snark up to a nine, leering across the bar at Keith.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Need me to get you one of those trumpets for your ears?”

Lance is feeling pretty mug right about now. That is until he feels Pidge’s hand slap on his shoulder. He whips his head round to look at her, and is unnerved to see her glowering at him.

“Don’t,” she says, voice low, “be a douchebag, Lance.”

Lance looks up to see Shiro looking slightly aghast. Even Hunk is looking pretty terrified, and this sudden feeling of dread settles over Lance as he realises he might have crossed a line he wasn’t aware of.

“Am I missing something?” he asks.

Shit, he doesn’t mean to sound that pathetic. Hopefully Keith doesn’t hear the fear in his voice.

“I don’t need an ear-trumpet,” Keith growls. “I have the latest model.”

He raises one hand to tap the headphones in his ear, and a stone effectively drops in Lance’s stomach.

They’re not headphones, he realises with a constricting throat. They’re hearing aids.

Well.

Shit.

Now Lance feels like a Grade A dickwad.

Suddenly all of Shiro's pride and praise for his brother make a whole lot more sense. No wonder Shiro seems in awe of Keith.

“Shit!” Lance says loudly. “ _Shit!_ I’m so sorry, dude, I didn’t realise you wer-“

Keith cuts him off by raising one finger.

“I can’t understand you when you talk that fast.”

Lance’s mouth snaps shut and he swallows nervously. How can Keith understand him at all? Should he ask? No, he definitely should not ask! What if he shoves his foot into his mouth again?

Keith’s eyes sweep over him once again, and yeah. Lance definitely feels like he’s in a naked dream now. With lots of people pointing and laughing. And a girl he likes is there.

“You look loud,” Keith remarks. “Shiro told me you were a loud person.”

Lance chances a peek at Shiro, who doesn’t seem to be processing the situation too well himself.

“I said he _can_ be loud,” Shiro clarifies. He looks a little sheepish at being outed. “I also said that he grows on you.”

Keith snorts at that.

“You know,” he says. Lance shivers at the chill in his tone. “It’s guys like you that sometimes make me glad I’m deaf. Means I don’t have to listen to you spout shit all day.”

And with that, Keith pushes off the bar and strides out of the SU. Shiro sighs, shooting Lance a rue smile before trotting after his brother.

Lance can feel Pidge and Hunk watching him, and he does nothing to hide his ashamed groan as he sags against the bar.

This was going to be a _long_ year.


	2. Practice Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Lance have their first class together, before bickering over a music room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W oOOW there were some truly gorgeous responses to the first chapter!!! I'm glad you're all liking it so far!
> 
> This is a short chapter, since I'm just starting to plan this fic a little better. But I mostly wanted to set up Coran in the story!  
> Again, this story is written out of my own experiences so if there's anything that's insensitive or inaccurate just let me know and I'll do my best to rectify it :D

Lance has never felt this stupid in his entire life.

And he’s done _a lot_ of stupid shit.

After the scene at the SU, Lance had gone home and Googled Keith again. He could understand Pidge’s laughter now. Lance had been so entranced watching Keith play, he had never actually _read_ most of the articles attached to the violinist’s image.

_Keith Kogane, one of the rising stars of the classical world, performs Sonata in G by Guilluame Lekeu at The Paladin Dome. Despite losing his hearing at the beginning of 2014, Kogane continues to impress audiences with his rapid improvement and stunning performances. He will be attending Altea University of Music and Technology later this year._

There it was, in fresh pixelated black and white. Keith had gone deaf about two years after he’d taken up the violin.

Lance is simultaneously both awestruck and vehemently pissed off. How did Keith get so good so fast? And how the hell did he manage it all whilst losing his hearing.

Lance grinds his teeth as he trudges dutifully to his Monday morning class. The class that Keith just so happens to be in as well. Lance feels a twinge of guilt at his actions from the evening before, but it vanishes when he remembers Keith’s reaction.

_“It’s guys like you that sometimes make me glad I’m deaf.”_

Like, as far as insults go that one was a stinger. Lance has never been told that he’s made someone glad to be disabled before, and the notion buries itself deep under his skin.

Who the hell does Keith think he is? It wasn’t as if Lance had been _trying_ to be an asshole. And anyway, surely people got confused all the time? Shouldn’t Keith be used to it by now? Couldn’t he afford Lance a little more patience?

Lance’s mood only sours as he walks through the lecture room door to see Keith already sat at the table. There’s an older man sat next to him wearing a royal blue suit that somehow compliments his shock red hair. He’s also sporting one hell of a moustache that seems to be twitching even though he isn’t speaking.

Keith looks up from the notebook he’s doodling in to lock eyes with Lance. A beat passes, and Lance notes that he was right about Keith’s eyes: They’re a dark colour, settling somewhere between grey, blue, and purple, and they glitter dangerously in the fluorescent overhead lights.

Lance sucks in a breath, forcing his temper to settle. He might as well _try_ and make friends, right? I mean, he was going to be in class with Keith for the whole _year._ It would do no good if they were at each other’s throats the whole time.

Lance breaks out his most winning smile, the one he reserves for the cute girl at the campus coffee shop, and lifts his hand in a friendly wave.

“Hey Keith!”

If Keith is startled by the cordial gesture, he doesn’t show it. He barely even blinks at Lance’s greeting before wordlessly turning his attention back to his notebook.

Well there’s goes that idea. Lance’s resolve to be friends flies at the window, quickly replaced by flaring anger.

God, he’d apologised hadn’t he?

Lance throws himself unceremoniously into a seat a few rows back from Keith, glaring at the other boy’s stupid mullet.

“God, if that’s what you get for trying then you’re gonna be a loner for the entire year,” Lance grumbles to no one in particular. “I hope you fail all your classes.”

A flash of movement out the corner of his eye captures Lance’s attention, and he turns his head to see the moustached man lowering his hands into his lap. Keith swivels in his seat, fixing Lance with a stony glare.

“Maybe I just don’t want to be friends with _you,”_ he snaps.

Lance splutters, almost falling out of his seat as he scrambles to sit up.

“How did y- I thought you said you were deaf?!” Lance squawks. He feels slightly indignant at having been cheating out of the advantage of Keith’s lack of hearing.

“Oh, I should probably introduce myself!” The older man pipes up. “I’m Coran! I’m Keith’s interpretor!”

He waves amicably and Lance gapes.

“I’ll be assisting Keith with his classes,” Coran continues.

“Lance. Ummmm… Would you mind not uh…” Lance trails off, unsure of how to word his sentence with Keith watching him like a hawk.

“Ah, sorry my lad. But I’m here to interpret anything relevant that Keith’s lip reading might miss,” Coran says with an apologetic smile.

He’s waving his arms around wildly, frantically signing his words so that Keith can be privy to the conversation, and Lance can’t help but balk a bit.

Whereas Shiro had exhibited very clear gestures when signing, Coran’s style seemed a bit more… Well. Let’s just say that Lance thought Keith definitely had his work cut out for him trying to understand the erratic hands gestures. He was certain Coran was making at least half of them up as he went, and vaguely wondered if having a style for ASL was the same as having an accent.

Could you get accents in sign language?

That train of thought was abruptly cut off as the rest of the class filed into the room, each taking a seta and filling out the lecture hall.

The lesson drags on.

The lecturer briefly introduces Keith to the rest of the students, announcing that he’ll be joining them since he’s on the fast track program. A program that’s saved for prodigies and musical geniuses, Lance notes bitterly.

“Keith Kogane, rising star of the classical violin!”

Lance thinks he’s dislodged a filling, he’s grinding his teeth so hard. He wants to smack that _virtuoso_ cap right of Keith’s stupid mullleted head.

After Keith had been introduced (accompanied with bizarre flailing from Coran) it’s all Lance can do to stop himself from shouting obscenities at the other boy. He peeks up occasionally to shoot daggers at the back of Keith’s head. Not that it does much. Keith is too focused on Coran’s signing and the teacher’s lips to notice Lance trying to incinerate him with his eyes.

At least Lance thinks so anyway. Once or twice he lifts his head to catch the long midnight-dark hairs at the nape of Keith’s neck ruffling as if he’s whipped his head around. Coran eyes Lance speculatively, offering nothing more than a friendly grin and a thumbs up when Lance raises an eyebrows in question.

Whatever. Lance all but bolts out the door when the class is over. He’s thankful he’s got a free period now, automatically heading over to the music rooms to smash out an angry piece on the keys.

Music is like therapy for Lance. He pours all his emotions into a piece and they come rippling out like waves from the piano. Today, he plays Profokiev’s Toccato in D Minor Op.11 mostly from memory, substituting in his own notes when muscle memory fails him. His fingers fly across the keys with a vendetta, striking each note angrily until Lance is almost panting from the exertion of keeping his emotions in check long enough to play properly.

It’s a short reprieve though.When he’s finished the piece, Lance’s hands are shaking a little.

 _Not good,_ he tells himself firmly. He reaches down into his bag and pulls out a copy of his composition assignment. Arranging it neatly on the lip of the piano, his long slender fingers ghost over the keys, feeling out the hand movement before he starts to play.

Lance has barely made it through four bars when a loud knock at the door makes him jump, and Lance’s fingers spring away from the piano in surprise. The door swings open and low and behold, there stands Coran, moustache curling upwards as he smiles broadly.

“Lance, my boy!” he chirps! “I’m sorry to interrupt your playing, but Keith has this room booked for the next hour to practice.”

“What?” Lance’s eyes fall to Keith who’s standing behind Coran, arms crossed firmly across his chest as he scowls.

“These rooms are free for use.”

“Ah yes,” Coran agrees with a sage nod. “But you see, they’re also available for booking. And, well, Keith booked this one on Friday.”

“Of course he did,” Lance spits, turning away.

When he turns back, he sees Coran signing to Keith.

“Don’t interpret that!” Lance yells, and Coran pauses, perplexed.

“Why ever not?”

“I don’t want to talk to this jackass,” Lance growls.

“I’m right here.”

Keith is glaring at Lance, his bottom lip jutting out a fraction, making him look all pouty and mad. Not that Lance cares about that.

“And I can understand what you’re saying. I can lip-read, _remember?_ ”

“Like I could forgot,” Lance says hotly.

Ignoring Keith, he turns to Coran.

“Just don’t tell him anything I say. If I don’t say it to his face then it’s not for him to hear.”

Lance almost misses the flash of hurt that flickers across Keith’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced with a scowl far fiercer than before.

“Oh well, that’s a bit of a problem,” Coran says. “I’m Keith’s interpreter, so I don’t converse _for_ him. I’m here to help him talk. Essentially, you’re never really having a conversation with me, and I think it’d be rude to ignore Keith in order to talk to me.”

That stops Lance. Obviously he can’t cheat Keith out of a conversation with his goddamn interpreter, so Lance just shrugs in a way he hopes is nonchalant. He slings his bag over his shoulder, sweeping out of the room.

“S’not like I can’t practice whenever I want anyway.”

Lance doesn’t stay to see if Coran had translated. Nor does he realise he’s left his composition sitting on the piano.

 


	3. Club Voltron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and the gang attend Allura's jazz concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *obligatory sorry for the late update I've been busy with work yaddah yaddah*  
> I have an entire plan for this fic but as stated^^^ I'm v busy at the moment so I'll try to update as much as I can but i can't promise it's gonna be every week. Sorry guys.
> 
> Also what is that strange box Hunk has?

Lance feels on top of the world.

He’s finished classes for the day, he didn’t get shouted at _too_ much by Allura, he’s got a practice room booked for the entire afternoon and BONUS: He hasn’t bumped into Keith all day.

Coming into the kitchen of his dorm, Lance throws his bag down on the table, disrupting a very disgruntled Pidge.

“ _Lance,_ ” she hisses, frantically scrambling to grab the fluttering pages of notes that have scattered to the floor.

“Today is a good day, my little Pigeon!” Lance announces loudly. “Ask me why.”

Pidge rolls her eyes as Lance hops hands-free onto the countertop, his butt sliding a little across the smooth surface.

“Why is it a good day Lance?” she asks mockingly.

“Because!” Lance shouts with a wide grin. “Tonight is Thursday night! Student night at Voltron. _PLUS,_ Allura is performing tonight and you know she’s gonna be wearing a _sweet_ pair of boots that really show off her amazing as-“

“You better not let Shiro hear you talking about her like that.”

“ _Assets_ ,” Lance finishes. “I was gonna say assets, before I was rudely interrupted.”

“Sure you were,” Pidge says without glancing up.

Lance throws his hands in the air, offended.

“No faith!”

“Did I hear Allura’s performing tonight?” Hunk asks as he comes barging through the kitchen door.

He’s lugging a wide heavy-looking box, occasionally hoisting it up his body with a strategic bump of the knee.

“Yeah, at Voltron,” Pidge replies with a greeting smile.

Hunk grins, though Lance suspects it’s more about the possibility of bumping into Allura’s cute friend than it is about the actual evening. Still, Lance can only concentrate on one thing at once, and the mysterious cube wrestling with Hunk has piqued his interest.

“Whatcha got there, buddy?” Lance asks, hopping off the counter to get a closer look at the item.

“Work in progress,” Hunk says vaguely. He swats away Lance’s outstretched fingers without even looking at him.

“So Voltron?”

Pidge’s grin lights up as she peers over the top of rearranging her papers.

“Yeah, Shiro’s picking us up at eight.”

Lance’s heart plummets like a stone dropped into a pond in preparation of Pidge’s next words.

“He’s bringing Keith, too.”

Lance groans very loudly, very dramatically, sliding into a pile on the floor.

“Lance, are you okay??” Hunk worries.

Pidge just rolls her eyes so hard that Lance can _hear_ it.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she sighs. “Keith is a cool guy, Lance. What is your damage?”

“He’s an asshole!” Lance snaps from his puddle. “He just ignores me all the time, like HELLOOOOO RUDE!”

Pidge cringes at him, the skin by her nose crinkling with distaste.

“You know he’s d-“  
“Deaf, yeah yeah I know,” Lance huffs. “ _Still._ He totally stole my practice room the other day and didn’t even apologise.”

“Well, did you book the room?” Hunk asks, hefting the box onto the table.

He carefully skirts around Pidge’s notes, and she shoots him a grateful smile.

“…No,” Lance mumbles.

“Did Keith book the room?”

Lance stubbornly doesn’t reply, pulling himself up to sit cross-legged on the floor, hunching over as he pouts.

Hunk gives him a sympathetic smile.

“If Keith booked the room, it’s really only fair that he gets to practice in there.”

“Yeah, but did it have to _that_ room?” Lance gripes.

“Since when do you have a favourite room, anyway?” Hunk muses, rubbing his chin in thought.

“Since Keith decided to use it,” Pidge snorts.

“Oh please, I’m hardly that immature,” Lance fires back.

He misses the look Pidge shares with Hunk. Pidge turns back to her notes, shuffling through a few of the papers and reordering them in her fingers.

“I think it’s cute. Keith uses a room and now it’s your favourite. Adorable really.”

Lance practically snarls at the implication behind Pidge words, but all she does is chuckle. Dammit, he is going to stomp that particular train of thought into the mud. How dare she insinuate??

Lance rolls over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

“Dude, get off the kitchen floor. It’s gross.”

By the time 8pm rolls around, Lance has showered, changed, and misted himself with a light cloud of cologne. He’s just finished brushing his hair into place when he hears the dorm buzzer go. A soft patter of footsteps outside and the sound of Pidge’s voice before Hunk bursts into his room, all smiles and bright eyes.

“Time to go buddy! Shiro and Keith are here!”

Lance bites back a snarky retort as he throws on his jacket. He knows Hunk probably doesn’t care all that much about his rivalry with Keith, but dammit, Lance cares. Tonight is going to be interesting, that’s to say the least.

The trio make their way downstairs to where Shiro and Keith are waiting. When Lance steps outside, his eyes immediately seek Keith. He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, a bright red scarf poking out the top of his dark jacket as he eyes Lance warily. The light of the streetlamp glints a strange sort of blue off the shine in his hair, and Lance sneers. Keith is probably that pretentious kind of douche that only buys organic vegan shampoo that makes your hair really shimmery and soft. What a loser.

Shiro greets them all with a smile warm enough to curb the chill in the crisp evening air.

“Hey guys! Ready to go?”

“Oh you know I am!” Pidge whoops.

Then something strange happens. Pidge brushes the fingers on both her hands down her chest before pulling them into thumbs up. Keith’s eyes blow wide as a grin splits his face. Lance thinks he lights up like Christmas, the dark of the night illuminating for a second around Keith smile. He makes a similar hand gesture, and Pidge smiles in response. Shiro smiles too, there’s a lot of smiles this evening. Shiro frowns at Pidge, making a quick series of gestures. Lance only catches the last – Shiro moving his palms close to each other in a small circle. Pidge curls one hands up into a fist and taps down, _tap tap,_ and Shiro just _beams_ at her.

“Whoa, I didn’t know you could sign!” Hunk gasps in awe.

“What?!” Lance cries. His voice sounds a little more strangled than he intends. “Since when?”

Pidge gives him a completely bored look.

“I study Sound Design and Communication, Lance. I wrote part of one of my papers on communicating _without_ sound.”

“I actually know a bit, too,” Hunk says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

He makes a few small motions with his hands and Keith looks like someone’s just told him Christmas is coming early. Like an excitable puppy, he looks at Shiro, who claps him on the arm with a hearty laugh. It would be sweet, if Lance wasn’t boiling with jealousy. He suddenly feels as if he’s been left out of an exclusive club. He’s about to speak up and say he knows a very eloquent one-fingered sign when Shiro interrupts him.

“Shall we get going then?”

“Ooooh yes, I’m excited to see what Rolo’s done with Allura’s setup this evening,” Pidge coos.

And just like that, she grabs Keith’s elbow and starts walking.

It’s a short walk into town, only about 15 minutes from the campus. Lance spends the entire journey glaring at Pidge and Keith signing at each other, feeling a dark sense of animosity settle in his gut. Hunk is trying to talk to him about something, Lance thinks it’s some sort of show but he’s not really paying attention, to caught up in trying to burn Keith alive with his glare. Hunk doesn’t seem to mind, the occasional grunt and “yeah man” from Lance doing enough to appeasing him.

By the time they make it to Voltron, Lance has fallen quiet.

“Dude, are you alright?”

The concern colouring Hunk voice snaps Lance back into action, and he turns to see Hunk eyeing him cautiously.

“You haven’t taken your eyes off Keith the entire time here. If you wanted to learn some ASL to talk to him-“

“NO!” Lance half shouts.

Pidge and Shiro turn to him in surprise, and after seeing their reaction, so does Keith. He frowns at Lance in confusion, and Lance feels hot under that violet gaze. Hurriedly, he turns his back so that Keith can’t see his mouth move.

“Why would I want to talk to this jackass?”

“You know we can just tell Keith what you’re saying, don’t you?” Pidge says all too loudly from behind him, and Lance shoots her a warning glare.

Pidge ignores it, resuming her conversation with Keith. Lance feels pretty triumphant when he feels a hand press heavily on his shoulder. He whirls around to see Shiro giving him a strange look.

“Lance, I know you and Keith may have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I’d really like it if you would at try to get on,” he says evenly.

Lance can feel himself shrinking under Shiro’s gaze. Dammit, the guy knew exactly the kind of power he had. The hope that glimmers in his eyes is pure and innocent, and Lance feels his resolve to rival Keith wilt a little.

“It would really mean a lot to me,” Shiro continues, and damn he knows how to play dirty. “I think it would mean a lot to Keith as well. He may not show it, but he’s actually quite nervous to be attending this school. He wants to do well.”

Lance sighs exaggeratedly in complete defeat, his torso folding forward as if Shiro had pushed him.

“Fine,” he says wearily, popping right back up. “But only because you asked, and I love you.”

Shiro beams.

“Thanks, buddy.”

Lance gives him a smile in response, but his eyes drift over to Keith to see the other boy peering at him curiously. Lance has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from sticking it out in a childish retort.

_Play nice, Lance._

The doorman lets them in ahead of the queue, much to the hushed grumblings of the other club-goers, but hey. They’re always on the guest list to Allura’s gigs. They slip into a booth as the band play out a background beat, the soft lilt of a saxophone floating melodiously over the crowd.

“I’ll get us some drinks,” says Shiro as everyone settles.

“Allow me!” Pidge pipes up.

She tries to wriggle past Keith on the banquette, but Shiro gives her a stern look.

“I’ll be getting us all some _non-alcoholic_ drinks,” he stresses. Turning his back, he marches off towards the bar.

Pidge huffs, slouching down in her seat as she crosses her arms grumpily over her chest.

“What’s the point of having a fake ID if you can’t even use it?”

Hunk chuckled at her indignation, leaning across the table to talk. Keith watches Hunk’s lips closely, the lights from the stages dancing flashes of blue over his dark eyes.

“Shiro has a massive thing for Allura,” Hunk said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“I know!” Keith replied. His voice was a few decibels too loud, despite the volume of the band, and a few people from the surrounding tables looked over at him.

Keith surveyed their reactions before turning back to Hunk. When he spoke again, his voice was decidedly softer.

“I’m looking forward to seeing her. Shiro definitely has… a type.”

“Who has a type?” Shiro piped up.

Everyone’s eyes bar Keith’s turned to the taller man, smiles breaking out on their faces as he distributed the drink across the table. Keith turned to his brother as soon as he caught sight of the movement in the corner of his eye, shooting him a sly grin. Shiro was watching Keith for an answer, and there was a silent beat as the two just stared at each other. It took Lance that amount of time to realise Keith’s hadn’t heard Shiro’s question. Lance’s mouth moved before he realised he was speaking.

“Me, obviously. And my type is ‘anyone with a pulse’.”

Lance shoots Shiro a shit-eating grin for added emphasis, laughing as the other man’s drop with a good-natured sigh. Lance’s eyes involuntarily drift over to Keith’s to see the dark-haired boy watching him with a strange expression.. Lance raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

Keith doesn’t respond. Instead, he silently turns his attention back to the stage just as the lights dim.

A soft blue glow illuminates the stage, ghosting over the edges of a dark figure stood in the middle of the small platform. A soft beat picks up as the steady flutter of a guitar rift plays, and the spot light slowly comes up to give the crowd a full view of Allura.

Now, Lance will fully admit that she’s beautiful, and YES he has asked her out more times than he has fingers on his hands. But he will also concede that he’s been shut down by her even more times than that, and how she looks tonight, he honestly is happy to have the butt end of that deal.

There’s just something about Allura that exudes power, and in an instant the audience is captivating.

She’s clad in a black dress with long arms and a high collar, which would normally be quite modest were it not for the fact that it hugged her figure so tightly. Her hair is done up on her head in a messy knot, and long purple earrings dangle by her throat. She has on long black boots that reach just over the knee, a pair of grey woolly socks just peeking out over the top. Allura looks… Great.

But honestly, it’s when she opens her mouth that the crowd falls apart. Her voice is low and husky, the accompanying music complimenting her timbre perfectly as she sways her hips. A few loud whistles make it over the small crowd as she performs, and she graces each with a cheeky waggle of her fingers. Lance looks at Shiro and okay. Wow. Just…

The poor guy looks like he’s trying very consciously not to drool. Not that Lance can blame him, but the way Shiro does it is so overwhelmingly pure. Like, somehow he manages to exude lust and affection at the same time, and Lance shakes his head at how far gone his friend is. He turns back around to see Keith watching his brother, a knowing smirk curling the corner of his mouth. As Lance turns his head, Keith’s attention snaps to the movement. He shares a look with Lance, a small frown creasing between his eyebrows. For a second, Lance forgets that he hates Keith. For just a second, Lance is sat in Voltron with his friends, and with Shiro’s brother who, by all accounts, he doesn’t even really know.

And then Keith scowls at him, and the moment shatters. Lance bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to look back at Allura. But not before he notices Keith bobbing his head minutely.

 _Huh,_ Lance thinks. _I wonder how he knows what the beat is._

Lance over to ask Hunk this very question. Hunk just shrugs, following Keith’s line of sight with a curious pinch between his brows.

“He’s probably watching the drummer,” Hunk concludes.

Lance feels… Well, he doesn’t really know how to react to that. It’s… kind of impressive, he thinks. But at the same time, what exactly did Keith get out of this entire experience. If he was watching the stage, he was missing out on conversation. If he was conversing, he might not realise when he’s talking over the music. Why go through so much trouble to come to a jazz club if you couldn’t even appreciate the music.

The train of thought irks Lance in a weird way, and he opens his mouth to ask, because he’s not shy, when the music comes to a halt. The house lights burst into life, filling the whole room with light, and the crowd cheers as Allura takes a small bow, gesturing towards her band as she claps for them too.

“So what do you think of our jazz Princess?” Lance asks Keith.

Keith doesn’t respond, and it takes Lance a minute to process that it’s because he’s still watching the stage.

Pidge rolls her eyes, shooting Lance a look that says, “really?” before nudging Keith infine the arm. She signs something quickly, and Lance can only presume it’s his question. That is, until Keith snorts, glancing up once at Lance before signing back.

Okay, RUDE. They were blatantly talking about Lance right IN FRONT of him, and he crossed his arms like an angry child.

“Er, guys? I’m right here!” he snaps.

Pidge spares a second long enough to give him a diabolical grin before returning to her conversation.

“Lance,” says Shiro warningly.

Lance shuffles a little further into his seat, promptly remembering his promise.

“Yeah yea, I know,” he mutters.

Shiro smiles at him gratefully, and okay yeah it’s worth putting up with Keith because Shiro is awesome.

“Hey guys!”

A thick British accent chimes over the hubbub of the small club, and Lance looks up to see Allura making her way over to them. He doesn’t miss the slight pink tinge to Shiro’s cheeks as he stands up to kiss her on the cheek.

“Hi Allura, great set!”

“Thank you, Shiro!” she beams before turning to place a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “You must be Keith.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you,” Keith says, standing to shake her hand.

Huh. Chivalrous.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushes. “Shiro’s very proud of you.”

“Ah yeah, he can be a bit much sometimes,” Keith responds. He bashfully scratches the back of his neck before his smile turns into something more wicked. “I’ve heard a lot about you too.”

“Oh?” Allura seems genuinely surprised, and Shiro flushes a little too much.

He signs something at Keith, who just laughs. Which is odd, because Lance hasn’t heard Keith laugh before. It certainly makes a change to his usually gruff voice, and his bangs fall out of his face a little as he tilts his head back.

“Are you staying for a drink?” Shiro asks, hurrying to move the conversation along.

“I wish that I could,” Allura says with a sigh. “But I have work tomorrow, so I’ll be heading back.”

“I’ll walk you!” Shiro announces, jumping up from his seat.

Keith smirks, his eyebrows rising slightly, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve actually gotta get back too,” Pidge adds, shuffling a long the banquette a little. “Early class tomorrow.”

“Yeah same,” Hunk adds.

“You too Hunk?” Lance says in mock horror. “Who knew you guys were such lightweights.”

Pidge actually cackles at that one.

“Oh please. Need I remind you of the last time you tried to drink me under the table?”

Lance shudders. That was an… Eventful night to say the least.

“Whatever, guess we’re all heading back to campus then.”

Lance feels Keith’s eyes on him, and for what seems like the millionth time that night, he turns on the other boy.

“Would you quit staring at me like that? Creep,” he snaps.

“Lance!” Allura gasps.

Keith’s scowl is downright dark.

“I was reading your lips,” he growls. “But I guess I won’t do that anymore, since all you seem to do is talk shit.”

Lance opens his mouth to retort, but Keith turns away completely, and Lance realises that his insult would very literally fall on deaf ears. His jaw closes with a snap, and he all but jumps to his feet.

“Come on, then. Let’s just go.”

Hunk and Pidge exchange a look. Normally Lance would whine at them, but he feels like if he says anything else right now it’s just gonna make him look even more petulant than he already feels.

“I’m gonna take Allura home,” Shiro says slowly.

His eyes dart back and forth between Keith and Lance, as if he’s waiting for a bomb to explode.

“You’ll be alright getting back to campus.”

“We know the way, thanks dad,” Lance says with a smirk.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Shiro mumbles, but he lets Allura take his arm and lead him away. Shiro waves one last sign to Keith, who smiles back, before he and Allura disappear out the door.

The walk back to campus is quiet.

Keith and Pidge are rapidly conversing in ASL, but Hunk remains silent, sending Lance worried glances out the corner of his eye.

“Would you stop that?” Lance snaps, but it comes out more weary than anything. “I’m fine.”  
“Oh I know _you’re_ fine,” Hunk replies. “But… Don’t you think you could maybe be a bit nicer to Keith?”

“No,” Lance says shortly.

Hunk gives him a long stare that’s laced with a quagmire of emotion.

After a very long pause, he speaks up.

“It’s not his fault he’s deaf, dude.”

“I don’t dislike him because he _deaf_ ,” Lance hisses. “What do you take me for, some sort of ableist?”

“M’just saying,” Hunk backtracks, holding his hands up in surrender. “If he could hear, would you be behaving this way?”

“If he could hear, would he still be a douchebag?” Lance fires back.

Hunk just sighs, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he lapses back into silence. Lance barely notices Pidge eyeing him from a few paces ahead.

Something brightly coloured catches Lance’s eye as they walk into the dorm reception, and he stops walking abruptly. Hunk turns to look at his friend’s sudden halt, and Pidge’s gently tugs Keith’s arm to bring him to a stop as well.

“What is this??” Lance cries loudly.

He points accusingly at the announcements pin board, and Hunk takes a step closer to get a look at the offending item.

Lance is pointing at a loudly decorated poster, a bunch of clip art musical instruments plastered crudely around the words ‘AUTUMN TERM TALENT SHOW’. There’s a grid underneath it for names, a few slots already having been filled out.

“Oh that?” Hunk muses. “I was telling you about it earlier, man. There’s gonna be a big talent show and there’s auditions happening in a few weeks and stuff. I knew it was your sort of thing so I suggested you sign up for it.”

Lance feels a familiar sort of excitement bubble up inside him, and he starts bouncing up and down on the spot.

“Hell yes I’m signing up for this!” he shouts, ignoring Hunk’s shushing. “Do you have a pen?”

“Sorry, Lance,” Hunk apologises. “Not on m- hey!”

Lance pushes past him to grab Pidge’s head.

“Oi!” she yells, smacking Lance in the ribs. “What the hell are you doing?”

Lance’s fingers are digging around in Pidge’s hair, and she viciously bats at his onslaught.

“Got it!” Lance announces proudly, stepping away with an old biro grasped firmly between his thumb and forefinger. “Pidge, I’ve seen you lose an entire metronome in your hair before. I knew there had to be a pen in there somewhere.”

Pidge rubs at her scalp in irritation.

“You could’ve fucking asked.”

Lance isn’t listening though. He’s already scribbling his name on the list in his chicken-scratch handwriting, grin wider than ever.

“I’m gonna smash this competition!” he informs everyone loudly as he steps back to beam at the poster.

“It’s not even a competition,” Pidge grumbles.

Lance is about to respond that _everything_ is a competition when he feels someone snatch the pen out of his hand. Before he can even react, the dark shiny locks of Keith’s stupid mullet bounce into view, hovering in front of the poster. When he steps away, Lance can see Keith’s name written neatly on the row below his. Keith turns to flick his eyes nonchalantly in Lance’s direction before turning to hand the pen back to Pidge.

“Good night, guys,” he says simply. And with a small wave, Keith walks through the door to his dorm.

Lance is aghast. He can’t even move his limbs, he’s so shocked. What the hell just happened? Who the hell did Keith think he was? The overwhelming surge of raw indignation snaps Lance back into action, and he turns to Hunk in complete bewilderment.

 _“You see??”_ he scoffs. “ _Douchebag.”_

Pidge just shoves the pen back into her hair, the thin tool disappearing into her tawny locks.

“It’s too late to be this noisy,” she mumbles around a yawn. “G’night you two.”

Hunk bids Lance a hasty goodnight as well, retreating back to his room.

Lance is left there in the hallway to stew. He considers ripping Keith’s name clean off the list, but he has a better idea than that.

He’s going to beat Keith at his own game, and win that goddamn talent contest if he has to compose an entire symphony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song Allura sings btw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6r0VoSDRB_Q


	4. Friends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance attempts to make friends and fails at ASL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *obligatory sorry this is late message*  
> But yooooo guess who got an animation test from Nickelodeon! This gal! Wish me luck good people! :D
> 
> Also, for anyone that may get confused: All conversations had in sign language will start and end with < >

“Lance, you’re being petty,” Hunk absconds from across the room.

The three of them are sitting in their dorm common room, studying. Or well, studying in Pidge and Hunk’s case anyway. Lance has found a much more appropriate use of his time, and he taps away on his computer as the steady hum of the microwave fills the small room.

“I’m not being petty,” Lance counters. His fingers fly wildly over the laptop keyboard perched in his lap. “I’m being prepared.”

“You’re being petty, Lance,” Pidge confirms from the pile of notes she’s currently buried under. “But I for one am interested in seeing how this situation goes down.”

Lance doesn’t know whether or not to be happy or offended at Pidge’s comment, so he ignores it and continues with his frantic internet search. He’s been Googling ASL insults for the past hour and a half, desperately trying to cram as many as possible into his brain ready for the next time he sees Keith.

Keith. That stupid mullet-toting snotty alleged musical genius. Lance feels his skin prickle with heat as anger floods through his body. The events of last night come flooding back to him. The way Keith had snatched the pen out of Lance’s hand, signing his name in quick script solidly on the sheet for the talent show. Lance’s fingers twitch with fresh agitation, and fuelled by his indignation they scurry across the keys as Lance types “Fuck you” into the ASL search bar.

“I’m still pissed that Shiro won’t help me with this,” Lance huffs to himself.

“Let you insult his brother? Obviously that wasn’t going to work, Lance,” Pidge says derisively. They hold up one finger to silence Lance just as he opens his mouth to argue. “And before you ask, no I will not help you either. If you want to insult Keith, you’ll be doing it without my help.”

“I don’t get why you’re going to so much trouble,” Hunk ponders and Lance sulks. “Surely he could just sign back, and you wouldn’t be able to understand him.”

“Yeah, but I can just shit talk him without him knowing,” Lance replies without looking up from the screen.

Pidge shoots him a very sharp look.

“Even for you, that’s being a world class douchebag,” she says warningly.

Lance scoffs. Since when are his friends taking that asshole Keith’s side?

“What do you mean ‘Even for me’? The guy’s a jerk, Pidge! You saw what happened yesterday!”

Pidge adjusts her glasses and gives Lance a terrifyingly even stare.

“There’s challenging someone on a level playing field, like the talent show. And then there’s someone using someone else’s disability against them,” she says darkly. “Don’t be the latter.”

“Yeeeeah, I’m gonna have to agree with Pidge on this one,” Hunk chimes in, nervously rubbing the back of his neck when Lance glares at him. “C’mon dude. Just don’t provoke him and he’ll leave you alone.”

Lance grapples with himself. He knows he’s being a child, but at the same time, there’s something about Keith that just irks him. He can feel it rippling through his muscles like wasted adrenaline, making him antsy.

“Y’know, my offer still stands,” Hunk says, interrupting Lance’s brooding.

Lance gives him a quizzical look.

“To teach you some ASL phrases,” Hunk elaborates. “Maybe you could actually try talking to him. He’s a nice guy.”

Lance drums his fingers thoughtfully. It was a way in, he guesses. Maybe if he actually got talking to Keith, the other boy would let his guard down and Lance could really hit him where it hurt come the talent show.

“Can you teach me how to say ‘I’m gonna kick your ass’?”

“Oooh! Oooh ME!” Pidge shrieks.

Her hand shoots skywards as if she’s in class, and she hops up and down in her seat excitedly. She would look adorable, Lance thinks, if it weren’t for the diabolical grin on her face.

“Oh hell no!” Lance immediately back tracks. “You’re gonna teach me to say that I think he’s got killer pecs or something, and I do NOT need that all up in my space.”

“You think he’s got killer pecs?” Pidge snickers.

Lance shoots her daggers, and she falls backwards in her seat with a viperish cackle.

“Ummmm no,” Hunk says in response to Lance’s question. “But I can teach you some basic conversation. Nothing super fancy like Pidge or Shiro.”

Lance mulls it over for a second. He didn’t really want to fight with Keith, if he was being honest. It’s just that his pride was hurt, and Keith was getting so much attention for his violin playing skills, which were, Lance could admit, pretty awesome. And okay, maybe Lance was a little jealous, but he’d NEVER admit that under pain of death or whatever. Like Keith needed the ego boost anyway.

At the end of the day, though, Lance was a lover, not a fighter. Surely it couldn’t hurt to try and at least be civil to his arch-nemesis. Maybe they culd even have one of those weird frenemy relationships like in Megamind.

Sighing so heavily that his shoulders sag, Lance folded his laptop shut, sliding onto the sofa next to him.

“Okay, big guy. Teach me what you know.”

Hunk’s smile could have lit the Olympic torch.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance arrives to his lecture early, for once. Which he’s kinda grateful for to be honest. It means he gets the best pick of the seats in the whole auditorium, and so he tactically picks something in the middle just a little way in from the aisle.

He shouldn’t really be surprised when Keith shows up with Coran a few minutes after Lance does, the goody two shoes that he is.

His navy eyes sweep over Lance like an ocean wave, bringing a slight chill to the brown boy’s skin. Ignoring it, Lance raises a hand in a half wave, hiking his fakest smile up his face. Keith pauses, seemingly thrown by the small gesture. After a second, he gives Lance a curt nod before taking a seat in one of the front rows.

 _Spoilsport,_ Lance thinks to himself.

Nonetheless, he swallows his pride and stands up, shimmying along the row of seats to walk down the aisle towards where Keith is sitting. As he comes into the dark-haired boy’s periphery, Keith’s head turns towards him, expression guarded, arms folded firmly across his chest.

“Hello, Lance! Good to see you!” Coran pipes up.

Loudly, mind you. Lance winces a little at the older man’s enthusiasm, and gives him a meek smile in greeting.

“Ummmmm so…” Lance trails of under Keith’s unwavering stare.

Lance’s hands fidget nervously, and he takes a deep breath to steel himself. God, he can’t really believe he’s about to do this.

With a theatrical wiggle of his fingers, Lance shakes his arms out in front of him and pulls a wide smile across his face. Brushing his palms briefly down his chest, he brings them out into a thumbs up, similar to how Pidge had done the other night.

_< How’re you?>_

Keith’s eyes blow wide, and his lips part slightly in shock. Lance doesn’t miss the small hiss as Keith sucks in a breath and his eyes dart to Coran’s. Coran blinks in surprise, his face cracking into a sly smile as he turns back to meet Keith’s gaze. The older man cocks his head to the side in a silent question.

After a few seconds of silence, Lance starts to feel a little stupid. He’s aware he’s still holding his hands out in a double thumbs up, and promptly drops them, letting his arms swing by his sides. Keith’s eyes track the movement, settling on Lance’s hands for a beat too long, as if they’re deadly weapons that could shoot out and incapacitate him at any given moment.

Shifting so that he’s sitting up straighter in his seat, Keith makes a quick gesture.

“Is this a joke?”

Lance blinks, taking a moment to realise that it was Coran that spoke.

“Er. Are you asking me or-“

“Keith is asking,” Coran confirmed, sensing Lance’s confusion.

“Oh.” Lance says intelligibly. “Um… No it’s not a joke?”

He doesn’t mean it to sounds like a question, but then Keith can’t hear the inflection in Lance’s voice, so he supposes it doesn’t matter that much.

“Don’t talk to me, dear boy!” Coran says, lowering his voice conspicuously. “Talk to Keith. I’m just here to interpret.”

“Oh, right,” Lance replies. Damn he feels self conscious as fuck.

Turning to Keith, he makes the basic hand motion Hunk taught him for “no”.

Keith’s brows furrow slightly, and his mouth works its way into a- Dare Lance say it?- into a pout. He stares Lance dead in the eyes, indigo versus azure, as he signs something aggressively.

“Do you want something?” Coran translates.

He’s raising his eyes at Keith slightly, and if Lance didn’t know better, he’d say that Coran looked like a parent silently scolding their child.

“Look man,” Lance says, raising both hands in what he hopes Keith will understand as surrender. “I just want to apologise for the other night. I didn’t mean to get so angry; I can just be a little competitive. Call it part of my charm.”

Lance waits patiently whilst Coran finishes signing his sentence.

And then Keith’s eyebrows go _way_ up. He stares at Lance as if he’s grown an extra head, looking at Coran as if to say “is this guy for real?”

Lance sighs heavily, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Dude look,” he says, giving Keith a little wave to get his attention back.

Very deliberately, Lance makes a fist a rubs it in a circle over his heart.

Keith’s regards the movement warily; his eyes only flicking up to Lance’s one the taller boy has dropped his hand. Lance can feel that stare all the way to his core. As if Keith is peeling away the layers of bravado he’s wrapped around himself like armour to see the soft squishy vulnerability underneath. Lance isn’t sure he likes it, but before he can make up his mind, Keith gives him a nod of acknowledgement. There’s a whisper of a smile curling at the corner of the shorter boy’s lips, and Lance feels the breath shoot of his lungs with a _whoosh._

Encouraged by Keith’s reaction, he makes a talking mouth motion by his forehead, before hooking both his index fingers together.

_< Friends?>_

Lance was prepared for more of that intense stare, a tight frown maybe, from the quiet boy. Hell, even a smile if he’s being really optimistic.

What he is not prepared for though, is for Keith to flush fire truck red and jolt forward in his seat as he tried desperately not to choke on his own spit. Keith stares at Lance with eyes so wide, the tan boy was afraid they might bug right out of his head. With crimson glow crawling down his face to his throat, Keith looks sharply away, his eyes apparently trying to drill holes into the desktop in front of him.

“Uh,” Lance says dumbly. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Ah, I think you may have gotten your signs mixed up a little, son,” Coran pipes up helpfully. “Did you mean to say ‘boyfriend’?”

Lance almost inhales his tongue.

 _“NO!”_ he screams, all at once grateful that Keith’s hearing is already impaired judging by the wince that Coran gives. “No no no of course not! Pidge told me that this was the sign for-“

Lance cuts himself off midsentence, silently cursing himself for his own stupidity.

_Pidge._

Of course she would think of a stunt like that, the little anarchist. Lance made a mental note to revoke the use of his hairdryer later.

“Well, you’re half right,” Coran says. “This is the sign for ‘friends’.”

He hooks both index fingers together the way Lance had.

“The sign for boyfriend includes the forehead gesture you used,” he adds.

Lance can feel his own face heating up, and he waves his arms wildly to get Keith’s attention. It’s to little avail however. Keith seems wholly occupied with studying the wood grain on the desk in intense detail.

“I didn’t mean boyfriend!” Lance insists, turning to Coran with wild eyes. “At all! Never! Like _literally never!”_

Coran touches Keith on the shoulder to get his attention. Keith is very pointedly not looking at Lance as Coran quickly signs out the taller boy’s sentence. His eyes snap to the side though once Coran drops his hands. Lance takes a small step back at the ferocious expression on Keith’s face. The boy’s dark brows are drawn down, and there’s a scowl hanging on his lips. The navy in his eyes seems to ripple like velvet, making Lance’s stomach drop like a stone.

Whatever Lance had said, it apparently wasn’t the right thing. Keith looks… Angry.

Tentatively, Lance hooks both his fingers together in another attempt at communication.

_< Friends?>_

Keith watches the gesture like a hawk, his eyes flicking up to read Lance’s anxious smile. After a long pause, the dark-haired boy shrugs, slumping back down into his seat as he turned away.

Well, that was as good a gesture as any, Lance thinks. He’s a bit miffed that Keith was still being so grouchy. He’d apologised hadn’t he? So what if he’d messed up a sign? It was Pidge’s fault anyway, and Keith KNEW that Lance didn’t know ASL. Jeez, cut a guy some slack!

Lance huffs giving Coran a small smile before turning to walk back up to his seat. He doesn’t get very far. Lance has barely taken a step when a hand shoots out and snags his wrist, tugging him backwards. Lance catches his balance just in time and turns around to look down at the pale fingers looped around his skinny wrist. His eyes follow the hand up the arm they’re connected to, all the way up to Keith’s face.He’d

Keith is watching him the way an animal would watch another, waiting to perceive if they’re a threat. The silence hangs in the air and Lance coughs awkwardly. Keith releases his hold as if Lance’s skin has burned him. Before Lance can open his mouth to speak, Keith hooks both his index fingers together as he juts out his chin. Lance hears the word in his head before Coran says it aloud.

“Friends.”

 

* * *

 

 

The lecture all but whizzes by, the bell to mark the end of first period ringing loudly through the auditorium as the students shuffle to pack their books away. Lance lopes down the aisle towards the exit, his gangly stride taking the steps two at a time so his footfalls make a dull _thwap_ noise against the thin carpet. He slows as he passes Keith’s desk, watching as the other boy stuffs papers into his satchel. One page slips off the edge of the desk, and Keith swipes at it in an attempt to catch it before it falls. He misses it by a hairs breadth, and the page glides to a stop at Lance’s feet.

Lance drops to snatch it off the floor. Turning it over, his eyes skim the first few bars, the melody forming in his mind like sand taking shape in a container.

“This is a duet,” he says out loud, blinking in surprise.

The notes disappear from in front of his face as Keith snatches the page out of his hand. Lance looks up to see Coran signing his words, and Keith watches Lance warily, waiting for him to say more.

“Did you write it?” Lance asks, curious.

To his surprise, Keith responds aloud to Coran’s interpretation.

“No, but I’m hoping to play it soon. I just need to find the right accompaniment.”

Lance repeats the notes in his head once more, and delicious smile coiling at the corner of his mouth, ready to spring.

“Well hey!” he cries, arms spreading wide. “I could accompany you! I play piano after all.”

_Yes good, Lance! Really making friends here._

Keith pauses to read Coran before fixing Lance with a strange look. Lance feels like he’s being examined under a microscope. He finds himself suddenly wishing he’d done his hair a bit better this morning, but due to the fact that it was a 9am lecture on a Monday morning he hadn’t really bothered.

“Thanks, but no thank you. I don’t think piano is what I’m looking for.”

Lance feels his jaw hit the floor.

“Wh-“

Keith sweeps past him without another word, and Lance can’t help but stare after him. What the hell?? What was Keith’s problem? Sure Lance had only skimmed the first 8 bars of the piece, but his overactive mind was already formulating a piano counterpart, weaving arpeggios through the lines on the score. Keith hadn’t even considered him!

“Hey!” he shouts when he manages to find his voice.

But Keith has already disappeared out the door. The last thing Lance sees is the tail end of Coran’s moustache as he salutes a goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“Oh dear, what happened?”

Shiro’s chuckle echoes nicely around the practice room as Lance leans his arms on the keys.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Lance grumbles into his skin, voice muffled.

“It must be really bad if you’re not even bashing out some Chopin,” Shiro teases.

Lance groans and turns his head to the side, catching Shiro regarding him sympathetically.

“I don’t get your brother,” Lance blurts out.

Shiro’s eyebrows skyrocket, his crossed arms unfolding in surprise.

“Keith? What’s to get?” he enquires.

Lance pushes himself away from the piano with the heels of his hands, causing a few notes to clash together.

“I was trying to be nice and he got all grouchy on me!” Lance whines.

“Why? Did you do something?”

“NO!” Lance half yells. “Why do you automatically just assume that _I’m_ the one at fault??”

“Alright alright, take it easy,” Shiro says soothingly, raising his hands in surrender. “Keith can be pretty hot-headed too so it would be silly to think things are gonna be completely smooth sailing with the two of you.”

Lance scowls at Shiro.

“I tried to sign something to him and I messed up the word and then he got all red and huffy and then I offered to accompany his piece and he just shut me down,” Lance rants.

Shiro’s eyebrows knit together during the sentence, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Okay, let’s take this one thing at a time. What was the sign you messed up?”

Lance’s shoulders bunch up towards his ears. He feels a little embarrassed telling Shiro of his error. But then again, this was _Shiro._ Lance knew he wasn’t going to judge an ASL newbie for an honest mistake.

“I said boyfriend instead of friend,” Lance mutters.

Shiro just blinks, so Lance elaborates.

“Pidge showed me the sign for friend. Or at least, what she _said_ was the sign for friend. Coran corrected me,” Lance grumbles, and Shiro let out another small chuckle.

“That sounds like Pidge,” he hums fondly. “So what happened next?”

“He got so angry he turned red and then when I said I would never date him he nearly blew a fuse he was glaring at me so hard.”

“Aaaah,” Shiro breathes. “That might have caught him off guard. He probably wasn’t sure if you were trying to make a joke or not.”

“Of course I didn’t mean it!” Lance wailed. “Keith probably got all the babes all over him all the time, really working that bleeding heart virtuoso vibe and everything.”

“That doesn’t matter to him,” Shiro says mildly.

“Then why was he so touchy about it?”

“Because Keith is gay.”

Lance’s breath catches in his throat, and he nearly pops a blood vessel trying not to cough. He didn’t want Shiro to think he had a problem. Lance focuses on forcing his throat to stop constricting before taking a shuddering breath through his nose.

“Oh.”

“So after that?” Shiro smoothly moves to the next topic.

“I offered to play piano to accompany him on the violin for a piece he’s practising and he basically flat out said no,” Lance responds a little hoarsely.

Resting his arms back on the piano, he slumps forward, letting all his weight press against the keys.

“He didn’t even consider it for a second.”

“So he’s wounded your pride?” Shiro asks with a sympathetic look.

“Yes! I am very offended! I’m the best piano player in this entire institute!”

Shiro looks slightly taken aback, but Lance fixes him with a look.

“Don’t even deny it, Shiro. You know I’m good.”

“I’m not denying it,” Shiro affirms. “But I don’t think your ego needs inflating anymore.”

“Yeah well whatever,” Lance grumbles, turning his head away again. “My ego has just taken a serious bashing.”

“I don’t get why he wouldn’t consider it though,” Shiro muses. “Normally he’s very open to other players.”

“That’s not exactly helping,” Lance gripes.

Stepping forward, Shiro pats Lance lightly on the shoulder.

“I’ll talk to him, okay?”

Lance nods weakly. It’s not that he particularly cares what Keith thinks. If the guy doesn’t want piano, he doesn’t want piano. But it’s the fact that he hadn’t even stopped to _think_ about how they might sound together that’s really annoyed Lance. Heck, he’s got people chomping at the bit to have him accompany them. And here he actually offers and is just plain rejected.

“And hey Lance?”

“Mm?”

Lance sits up again to see Shiro making his way over to the door. He stops at the threshold to give Lance what can only be described as the warming look of a proud father.

“I think it’s really nice that you’re trying to learn some sign language for Keith.”

And with that, Shiro disappears out the room. Lance stares at where his broad frame was not a second ago, blinking as his brain absorbs the words like a sponge.

“I still hate him,” he hisses.

And for the next hour, nothing but the sharp sounds of someone aggressively playing Chopin resound through the practice halls.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a callout post for @paladinwilla for helping me with sensitivity!  
> Also what direction is this fic going? I had so many ideas and then this happens???


	5. BSL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance attempts at sign language go horribly wrong and he makes a snap decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, this was a chapter to get out. It wasn't even that difficult to write I just had major mind blank for about 90% of it so sorry if the descriptions are repeated or tired or just generally blah.
> 
> I'm also sorry for the wait! I've been super busy but haven't we all.

“Before the subject, right,” Lance mutters to himself.

He thumbs back through the pages of a Learning Sign Language book he’d checked out of the library a few days prior, feeling extremely proud of himself for doing so.

As it was, Lance has been reading the book religiously, intent on learning at least basic conversation. Not because he wants to make small talk with Keith, of course. No, Lance had the sole intention of learning enough sign language to be able to ask Keith exactly what the hell his problem is. Turning down the best piano player in the school without even a moment’s thought?

It was an outrage. It was an _insult._ And hey, if Keith wanted to act dumb and play the “I don’t understand” card then hell, Lance was gonna pull him up by his bootstraps.

Lance feels confident that he’s gotten the basics down, and he absently mimes out a few gestures with his eyes still glued to the page. He’s struggling to get the grammar right – there’s something tricky about putting the subject ahead of the object that you’re talking about, and Lance keeps messing it up.

He’s rereading a breakdown of the sentence structure when his phone alarm goes off. Lance swipes it off his desk clumsily, one hand still half making a sign. The alert onscreen tells him it’s almost time for his work shift, and he sighs dejectedly. Lance enjoys his work, he does, but he’d just been starting to get a hand of the grammar and he found it difficult when something broke his focus. With another world weary sigh, Lance stuffs the sign language book into his bag before pulling on his coat and making his way out the building.

When you have a large family, it’s understandable that sometimes money from home can get a bit tight.

The last thing Lance had ever wanted was to be a burden on his parents already thin paychecks, and so he’d resolved to do whatever he could to help out when he moved to university.

As such, Lance worked on campus at the coffee shop. It had a weird name – Paladin – but Lance always just assumed it was some throwback to some 80s TV show or something to do with caffeine. It wasn’t difficult work, and it helped him to have a bit of spare change in his pocket for schoolbooks. There was also the added bonus that meant Lance got free coffee and for a student that was basically the equivalent of an extra life in a video game. He didn’t mind having to scrub the coffee grinds out from under his nails if it meant he saved the entirety of his pay from being swallowed into the big black hole that was study hall caffeination.

Today is a slow day at Voltron, however. Lance has been practicing his latte art just to pass the time, despite his manager Shay scolding him for drinking the profits.

“You know those things are like 300 calories a cup?” Shay says, quirking an eyebrow at Lance. “You’ll get fat.”

Lance holds back his scoff in favour of finishing his seventh perfect rosetta, throwing in a little heart on the top just for fun. He was a loving kinda guy like that, after all.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he purred, shooting Shay a sly grin. “I eat my body weight in chips daily and I haven’t gained a thing. I don’t think I CAN gain weight.”

“Yeah and I hate you for it,” Shay retorted, leaning back on the counter.

“Oh please, I’d have your arms in a heartbeat,” Lance assures her.

Shay’s face splits into a proud grin.

“What? These puppies?” she asks, lifting her arms to flex her _huge_ biceps.

Lance swears he can hear the faint creak as the seams on Shay’s blouse stretch around her swollen muscles, and he’d be lying if he didn’t say a flash of envy lit his heart up something green.

Lance made a big show of swooning, draping himself over the coffee machine as he fanned his face with a hand.

“That should be illegal,” he sighs.

Shay chuckles, whisking a tea towel from her apron to swat at Lance’s hip playfully.

“Enough of that, you’ll spill your coffee,” she warns.

Lance glances around and yep, his elbow was definitely about to get some of the dark roast treatment. He pushes away from the coffee machine, carefully manoeuvring his arm away from his latte as he straightens up. Leaning forward on the counter, he lets his gaze sweep lazily over the room of empty tables. A lone student sits in the corner, papers spread out on the table almost ritualistically as they flit between their computer screen and the open book perched precariously in their lap.

“Think we should close up early?” Lance queries.

He’s not really eager to leave – more time spent at work meant more money after all – but the lack of customers this evening means that he’s not quite getting the satisfaction of switching off his brain whilst working through coffee orders.

Shay hums to herself quietly, following Lance’s gaze before flicking her eyes up to the clock on the back wall.

“I’d say leave it another hour and see if anyone comes in. If not then yeah, we’ll start close down.”

Lance shrugs, swiping his mug of coffee off the counter and downing half of it in one go. Lance then proceeds to spit some of it out as the steaming liquid scalds his tongue. Shay winces when the droplets spatter across the floor with little wet slaps, painting a glistening tan constellation across the dark tiled floor. Milk On Slate canvas, Lance McClain 2016.

“Ittthhhod,” Lance wheezes as his tongue lolls out of his mouth.

His eyes bug a little at Shay, who is stood staring at him in mild horror.

“Uh, _yeah_ it’s hot. You just made it.”

Lance waves his arms a little wildly, sloshing some more of the coffee over the floor as he shoots Shay a panicked look. He paws at his tongue, trying his best to exhale cool air onto it. The result is a horrible wet gurgling sound that can be heard even above the ambient music the café plays in the background.

The lone customer in the corner looks up. They blink slowly at the strange scene, Lance fanning his tongue as he stoops, trying to take it all in. After a second they look away, either too weirded out by the whole thing or just too tired to care.

Shay eyes the milky mess on the work floor unhappily before sighing.

“Ill get you a mop,” she announces, and turns on her heel to march towards the back.

Lance watches her go, tongue still hanging ridiculously from his mouth. He carefully curls it back behind his teeth, rubbing the rough surface against the roof of his mouth absently in an attempt to soothe the burn.

He gets so lost in the sensation that he doesn’t hear the bell ring as the café door swings open, announcing the arrival of a new customer. It’s only when said customer clears his throat that Lance turns around in surprise, his eyes blowing wide for a second.

In front of the counter stands Keith, bag tugged up lopsidedly on one arm. His hair is a little wilder than usual, though Lance can’t see the long strands at the back since they’re covered by a thick scarf that’s been wound around Keith’s neck.

A spike of irritated pride drill through Lance like a reflex as Keith’s rejection of his offer comes back in full force. Lance bites his sore tongue to stop himself from running his mouth. Keith had a right to say no after all. Even if Lance wa the best piano player. And Keith didn’t even consider him for a second. And they’d be GREAT together.

Lance observes Keith for a moment as he collects himself, taking in the shorter boy’s appearance.

Keith looks… Tired? Bored? Whatever it is, it’s got Keith’s eyes drooping to resting bitch face levels. Paired with the chunky jacket and the fingerless gloves, he almost looks cute… In a comical sort of way. Like a bad caricature of a hobo.

Lance shakes himself out of his random thought process, hiking a smile up his face as he approaches the till.

“Hey! What can I get you?”

Keith is staring very hard at his mouth. Normally Lance would feel self conscious, or query it, or blow him a kiss. He might even do all three if he thought Keith was cute. Which he did not. But Lance remembers what Keith had said about lip reading and relaxed a bit.

“Um, hi,” Keith says slowly, as if he was testing the words out on his tongue.

There’s a little pinch between his eyebrows as he frowns, and he ducks his head so that his scarf came up to his nose. It wasn’t cute, it was comical Lance reminds himself.

“What can I get you?” Lance asks again, slower this time.

He made sure to exaggerate his mouth movements as well so that Keith could understand better, because he was such a caring guy like that.

The pinch between Keith’s eyebrows disappear, and he remerges from his scarf looking visibly more confident.

“Can I get a black coffee with an extra shot?”

“Coming right up!” Lance chirps with a flourish of his hand.

Keith frowns at him, but quickly deposited his cash into Lance’s waiting palm before scuttling off to take a seat on the other side of the café. It seems to be the table farthest away from both Lance and the other patron that he could find. Not that Lance cares; it’s just an observation.

He turns his back on Keith, reaching out to unhook one of the coffee heads from the machine. He bangs it loudly into the fold out bin, clearing the used grinds away before flipping the head high into the air with a spin to catch it in his other hand. He sneaks a glance at Keith as he hooks the fresh grinds into the machine.

Keith has uncurled the scarf from around his neck and is in the process of shaking the jacket off his shoulders. Lance finds himself watching the movement, how Keith’s back arches to let gravity pull the puffy garment down onto the seat. The action causes Keith to tilt his head back a little, exposing the long strip of flesh leading from his chin all the way down to his collarbones.

Lance hurriedly turns back to the coffee machine to slot the cup of boiling water under the head before the espresso runs through.

 _I’ll make him long black instead of Americano since it tastes better,_ Lance thought.

He mentally patted himself on the back for being such a kind and upstanding guy.

So what if Keith rejected his totally nice and very selfless off to play accompaniment. It wasn’t like he and Keith were close, and besides he’d seen Keith playing. Lance wasn’t afraid of competition, not in the slightest, but even he had to admit that Keith was an amazing violinist. Why bother putting yourself next to someone who would probably try to hog all the limelight anyway?

The click of the coffee machine alerts Lance to the finished beverage, and he quickly slips it onto a saucer before stepping out from behind the counter to cross the short distance to where Keith is sitting. Depositing the drink on the table, Lance gives Keith his best lady-charmer grin.

Keith’s eyes barely flick up, but he grunts in acknowledgement of the service. Lance straightens up, waiting for Keith to say something more. When he doesn’t, naturally Lance’s personality kicks in.

“Soooooo… Rough day?”

Keith isn’t looking at him. He’s rummaging through his bag for something, various items inside the canvas walls clinking against one another in a strange percussion beat. When Keith notices Lance hasn’t moved, he stares up at him with confusion colouring his features.

“Ummm, can I help you?” he asks.

Keith pauses digging through his bag to cock his head, and some of his bangs fall to the side, exposing his gaze.

 _Wow he has really pretty eyes,_ Lance thinks before he can stop himself.

A hot wash of something kicks Lance in the gut and his smile drops in an instant. The feeling disappears in the blink of an eye, replaced by a burning hatred at himself. Lance can feel it writhing inside him like a snake, forcing its way into his muscles and up his throat.

“I said,” Lance repeats, his voice rising rapidly, “ROUGH DAY?”

Keith blinks owlishly, his eyebrows knitting together in utter perplexity. Lance curses under his breath, shaking out his arms in preparation for what he’s about to attempt.

 _Come on, McClain,_ he encourages himself. _Remember your grammar._

Lance makes a quick series of gestures, making extra sure to put the subject first and not the object. He drops his arms when he’s done, bringing his hands to settle on his hips as he shoots Keith a smug grin.

Keith’s reaction isn’t exactly what he hoped for. The deaf boy blinks at him again, slower this time, like he’s trying to minimise the amount of time he has to spend looking at Lance. When he opens his eyes, he glances nervously at the café door.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand that,” Keith says evenly.

“Oh _COME ON!”_ Lance huffs.

He can hear the other customer make a shushing noise behind him, but Lance ignores it. Lifting his arms again, he repeats the motions he’d so carefully memorised, albeit a little more aggressively. He’s not halfway through when Keith raises a hand to stop him. He doesn’t look happy.

“I don’t understand that,” Keith says. There’s a bitter note to his tone of voice, a lingering aftertaste that raises Lance’s hackles in defence. “But if this is some kind of joke, it’s NOT funny.”

Lance practically _hears_ his jaw hit the floor. Keith is scowling at him, his lips pursed with irritation. When it becomes clear that Lance isn’t going to say anything more, Keith snatches his cup of coffee off the table, turning away as he takes a large gulp.

Lance finally scoops his jaw off the ground, his teeth clacking together as he snaps his mouth shut.

Turning on his heel, Lance stomps back to the counter, his skin prickling with anger.

“That didn’t seem to go too badly,” Shay mused as he passed her.

Lance just hissed out an angry stream of Spanish as he grabbed the book from where he’d kept it under the counter. He flicks through it so aggressively it’s a wonder he doesn’t tear the pages. Finally, Lance finds the page he’s looking for. His eyes scan it meticulously, looking for any hint of what he did wrong.

But there’s nothing. He’d gotten it exactly right – Topic, comment, structure. Lance lifted his head to glare at Keith from across the café. The other boy was pointedly not looking at him, and Lance felt his blood boil.

The chime of the bell hanging over the door snapped Lance out of his one-sided rage fest, and his head whipped around to see Shiro stepping into the café. He waved amiably at Lance, un-tucking his chin from the grey scarf wrapped around his neck.

Even shaken by the rough winds outside, Shiro still manages to look like the cover of an Autumnal ad campaign, his broad shoulders filling out his black wool coat nicely, complimenting the white whisps in his hair. Lance sighs a little internally, both out of envy and pure animalistic pining, but he smiles and waves back.

Shiro makes his way over to Keith, dumping his jacket and bag on the opposite chair as he makes a quick sign. Keith nods, flashing his brother a smile before ducking his head to go back to his work. Lance bites his lip to keep from hissing.

Oh sure, Keith is nice when _Shiro_ signs.

“Hey, Lance! How’s it going?” Shiro asks him as he approaches the counter.

“Can’t complain my heavily pectoralled friend. What about your fine self?” Lance asks with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Heavily pectoralled?” Shiro queries.

Lance just shrugs, very obviously eyeing Shiro’s chest. The older man crosses his arms, shooting Lance a raised eyebrow in response.

“What can I get you today, Shirogane?” Lance asks in his perfectly friendly barista voice.

Shiro rolls his eyes, but it’s not bad. He has a half smile quirking the corner of his mouth and he drops his arms to his sides.

“I’ll get a mocha, please.”

Lance hums in acknowledgement, grabbing the tub of chocolate powder from off the shelf as he sets about making Shiro’s order. He very subtly eyes Keith as he works, watching the way he brushes his bangs out of his face, still wearing those ridiculous fingerless gloves.

“I see you and Keith are getting along then,” Shiro remarks and Lance jumps.

“Oh swimmingly,” he responds in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone.

Dammit, had he been that obvious?

Shiro huffs and Lance turns to him fully, yanking the coffee head into place behind him.

“What is it this time?” Shiro asks disapprovingly and oh. The crossed arms are back.

Lance sighs with a shake of his head.

“I tried to sign something to him and he pretended he didn’t understand,” Lance confessed bitterly.

He ran a hand through his hair in a sign of genuine frustration, and Shiro seemed to soften a little.

“Mind showing me what you signed?” he asks patiently.

Lance eyes him dubiously, but Shiro just waits. Lance sighs again, lifting his arms to repeat the exact sentence he’d signed to Keith.

“That’s… What was that?” Shiro says confusedly.

“Seriously??” Lance cries. “What am I doing wrong? The book I got was very clear!”

Something flickers in Shiro’s eyes for a second, and Lance gets the distinct impression his friend is trying not to laugh. It’s gone half a second later though as Shiro speaks.

“What book is this?”

Lance grabs the book from under the counter and shoves it towards Shiro by way of answer. Shiro hasn’t even opened the first page when he makes a little _Ah_ of understanding.

“What?” Lance says indignantly. “I did it perfectly, what’s wrong?”

“Well you see,” Shiro begins sheepishly.

He lifts up the book by the edges, turning around so that Lance can get a full view of the front cover.

“This book is for British Sign Language. Not American.”

As if to make his point, Shiro taps his fingertip to the top corner of the cover. Right over a little illustration of a notepad that clearly says _BSL._

Lance stares at it in complete stupor for a second, his jaw slack.

“What?!” he half shouts, and Shiro winces. “There’s _different types_ of sign language???”

“Yeah, sorry. I probably should have mentioned. I can teach you the basics if you still want to learn,” Shiro offered helpfully. Because he’s helpful like that.

Lance wants to smack himself for not realising his mistake. More so, he wants to smack Keith for not saying something. The bastard probably KNEW he was using BSL and had just watched him like an idiot.

Finishing Shiro’s mocha with a perfectly crafted rosetta, Lance slides the cup and saucer along the counter top before ringing up the bill. Shiro pays in exact change, which was always nice, and Lance closes the register with a satisfying click. Just as Shiro turns to walk back to the table, he pauses, looking back at Lance leaning over the counter in defeat.

“Oh, by the way I meant to tell you,” Shiro begins. “I talked to Keith about you accompanying him.”

Lance perks right up at that. If he were a cat his ears would prick up with interest.

“Ah how do I put this?” Shiro says lightly. “Keith is kinda shy.”

Lance blinks dumbly.

“Shy?” he snorts. “With that attitude.”

Shiro gives Lance a somewhat pitying look.

“Keith is extremely aware of his disability. It’s not that he doesn’t want to play with you, Lance. It’s just that he doesn’t really want to draw attention to himself.”

Lance gives Shiro an incredulous look.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Shiro offers him a wan smile, and Lance feels like he’s about to drop a Shiro Truth Bomb. A slew of cutting words that are delivered as gentle advice. Lance hates that they’re usually right, too.

“You draw a lot of attention to yourself, Lance. Keith’s pretty private, especially since he started losing his hearing. I think he mostly just wants to avoid all the gossip a team up between the pair of you would start.”

Lance gapes at Shiro, unable to form a coherent sentence from his jumbled thoughts. He can barely even splutter out a word of response before Shiro turns and walks away. Lance can feel his face heating up.

Was he really that bad? Keith certainly seemed to think so, and the thought made Lance feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

He wanted to shake his entire persona off the way you would take a suit off after work. Lance knew he was a loud guy, but this was the first time anyone had actively wanted to avoid him because of his personality. It made Lance feel small an he hated it.

He watched with burning cheeks as Shiro signed something to Keith. Keith paused for a moment, absorbing the sentence. And then his head whipped around to Lance. Their eyes connected across the short space, electric blue versus indigo, and Lance felt his mouth run dry. Then Keith looked away, signing something back to Shiro with a solemn face. Shiro nodded in understanding before sneaking what he probably thought was an unseen look at the barista.

Lance turned away, grabbing the book off the counter and slinking out back to the stock room, tail between his legs.

Shiro and Keith had been talking about him, he was sure of it. And he hated not being able to understand what they were saying.

And there it was.

Lance’s biggest insecurity.

Finally someone had called him out on it – his bravado. His overcompensation of the most cliché kind.

Pure liquid fury shot through his veins, the kind that only comes with the sting of humiliation, and Lance fumbled to pull his phone out of his back pocket with shaking fingers.

Tapping quickly across the screen, Lance entered his search into the Google bar: _ASL courses near me._

He clicked the first result as soon as the page had loaded. Scanning the screen briefly, he let out a shaky sigh of relief.

The nearest course was only a few miles off campus, and it was intensive to boot. Lance thumbed down the screen again to check the price.

$350

It was an investment, but Lance convinced himself it was worth it.

If Keith wanted to chat shit about him then fine. Lance was going to understand every single word and throw it back in his face.

Without a second thought, Lance entered his card details and clicked “Buy”.

Sliding down the wall, Lance sank gracelessly into a puddle of anxiety and giddiness over his decision.

 _HA,_ he thought triumphantly. _Take THAT, Keith._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws coffee shop au at you* HERE CATCH
> 
> Critiques are really welcome here because I'm not super happy with this chapter so go ahead - tell me what you liked, what you didn't like. I'm very open <3


	6. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith sets the record straight, Lance experiences Monday morning madness, and Shiro is up to no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I am very small and stressed and tired and i wanted this chapter to be longer but I just can't get it out for now so I'll compensate with a longer chapter next time! Thank you all for the lovely comments, they sustain me!

Lance arrives early at the lecture hall as usual. He throws his bag unceremoniously onto the desk top, ignoring how it slides precariously close to the edge as he flops his full bodyweight into the flimsy seat.

After his minor tantrum, the reality of what he’d done had sunk in. Lance finds his tired mind tripping over itself as he tries to work out just how many shifts he’ll have to work in order to afford the new expense. He can cut back on the potions that’s for sure, even if the very thought of using own brand moisturiser has Lance’s skin breaking out pre-emptively. He can make a loaf of bread last two weeks, right?

Lance doesn’t realise someone is approaching his desk until they’re stood in front of him, and suddenly he’s starting at a zipper enveloped by worn black denim. Lance sits up abruptly, instinctively pushing himself back in his seat, away from the… the _thing_ invading his eye line.

His eyes snap upwards to the owner of said zipper, only to find himself caught in the violet gaze of one Keith Kogane.

“Hey Lance,” Keith says casually. _Casually._ Like there’s nothing wrong at all.

It’s too early to seethe, but hell Lance’s ego is making a go of it anyway. The taller boy feels his fingers curl into a fist, and he’s sure there’s a muscle leaping in his jaw as he grits his teeth.

“I wanted to apologise.”

Oh.

The anger attempting to rouse itself before 9am hits a road bump, and Lance can feel it sputtering in his gut like a cranky engine. The tension is his body uncoils like ribbon being pulled from a present, and Lance blinks in surprise as he opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. He hadn’t been expecting Keith to be so much as friendly to him, and yet here the guy was on a Monday morning trying to make peace.

“Shiro told me you were trying to learn some ASL and picked up the wrong book,” Keith continues, ignorant of Lance’s dumbfounded expression. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just… I can be a little defensive and I was pretty tired that day.”

Keith rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as he glances to the side, and it’s the first time Lance notices that Coran isn’t with him. He’s guessing the interpreter hasn’t arrived yet, but still. He’s pretty impressed by Keith’s choice to speak on his own. Lance will fully admit he’d chalked the dark haired boy up as a typical emo sourpuss. The thought that Keith might be self-conscious about his disability had never really occurred to him.

“So… Yeah. I’m sorry. And also…” Keith shuffles his weight between his feet for a moment, taking a deep breath before he speaks. “If you’re ever stuck with ASL, you can always ask me.”

That stumps Lance for a second. He opens his mouth to speak, thinks twice, and shuts it again. It’s been a full five seconds before Lance’s brain kicks into gear, and Lance fumbles to sign out a quick “thank you”. Keith actually smiles kinda softly at the gesture, and it’s so completely different from his usually disinterested expression that Lance feels a weird little wobble in his tummy.

That throws him. It was a strange sort of plummeted feeling, like the rush of adrenaline you get right before a rollercoaster descends off the highest loop. Lance swallows thickly, trying to squash the strange feeling.

 _Probably just something I ate,_ he reasons with himself.

Keith is starting to look a little awkward, standing there in front of Lance’s desk. His navy eyes keep darting between Lance, his feet, and the door in rapid succession.

“Uh…” Lance begins intelligibly. “Do you wanna sit down?”

Keith’s eyes snap over to Lance just as he’s finishing his sentence, and a little pinch forms between his dark brows.

“Did you say something?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Lance responds with a nod. He straightens up in his seat, subconsciously brushing a hand through his hair. “Do you want… I mean, you can sit if you want?”

Lance phrases it like a question, but reminds himself not to be too self conscious about his inflection. He supposes one perk to Keith deafness is that he can’t hear the misplaced nervousness in Lance’s voice. Lance promptly bites the inside of his cheek for being such an asshole, even in his thoughts.

Keith is still frowning at him, so Lance taps the part of the desk a little to his right, raising his eyebrows in question as he lets what he hopes is a friendly smile pull at the corner of his mouth. Keith’s eyes widen slightly in understanding, and he rubs the back of his neck with a small smile of his own.

He doesn’t slink along the aisle as Lance thinks he’s going to. Instead, Keith kicks his bag under the desk before planting his hands atop the flat strip of wood and vaulting over it. He somehow twists in mid air and astonishingly lands butt first in the seat next to Lance.

Lance blinks as he tries to process the entire spectacle. But when Keith grins wolfishly at him, Lance turns away with decisive thought that it is way too early on a Monday morning for this.

They sit in silence as the rest of the students filter in. Lance wonders if the lack of conversation is awkward, but Keith seems pretty content just to watch the class slide into their seats. At least, that’s how it seems until Keith starts fidgeting. Lance shoots him a sideways glance. Having ADHD, he somewhat resignedly proclaims himself the king of fidgeting, always having to drum his fingers or bounce his leg to burn of some of the excess energy humming through his veins. But Keith’s fidgeting is different:

The violinist keeps glancing towards the door, looking up at the clock, and then pulling his phone out of his pocket to repeatedly unlock the screen only to lock it again a second later.

Lance frowns for a second, studying the other boy before he pulls a page out of his notebook a hurriedly scribbles a message on it. He slides it underneath Keith’s nose, watching the other boy’s eyebrows shoot up as Lance shoves the note under his hand.

_Everything alright?_

Keith’s eyes meet Lance’s, and he bites his lip with clear worry. It’d be cute if Keith didn’t seem so distressed. Just then his phone buzzes, and Keith whips it out of his pocket like a man possessed. His frown deepens, and he glances up at Lance again.

Lance raises his eyebrows in a clear expression of “ _what’s going on?”_

Keith flips over the note Lance had slipped him and quickly writes something on the back. Lance unfolds the paper just as the lecturer strolls into the hall.

Keith’s handwriting is… Surprisingly messier than Lance’s, and the tan boy gives himself a faint pat on the back for the small victory.

_Coran has an emergency and can’t come in today. Can you help me take notes? Please._

Lance reads the note twice. The last word is written almost like an afterthought, but somehow it also rings with desperation. He lifts his gaze to meet Keith’s navy eyes and gives him a firm nod. Keith breathes a visible sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging with the exhalation. And then he does something Lance isn’t prepared for.

He scoots closer.

Lance instinctively leans back, his eyes blowing wide as a few stray hairs brush his cheek. Keith peers up at him, one eye raised inquisitively. He has the audacity to smirk at Lance’s reaction, navy eyes sparkling with mirth. He points at Lance, then points at his hearing aids, before his index finger finally lands on Lance’s notebook, tapping a few times on the lined page for emphasis. The taller boy gulps, willing himself to settle down at the unexpected proximity. He doesn’t know what’s come over him, but Keith being close enough for their legs to brush is… Well, they don’t even know each other that well. It seems weirdly intimate, and Lance doesn’t really know how to feel.

Keith is close enough that Lance can smell his shampoo, and just a hint of mint from his breath. He chances a peek sideways as Keith is watching him write and _man_ does he have long eyelashes. He looks like a Disney princess.

The thought is like a bucket of ice water down his spine, and Lance sits bolt upright in his seat. Keith regards him as if Lance has grown an extra head, and the tan boy forces himself to calm down.

 _What the hell?_ He screams mentally. _WHAT THE HELL???_

Lance physically shakes his head, as if he can knock the intrusive thoughts out of his ears. It truly is far too early on a Monday morning to be dealing with this sort of thing.

It’s an issue for another time, he decides. The lecturer has already started talking, and Keith is looking at him expectantly. He can’t look bad in front of his rival. Lance allows himself a small grin, ignoring the responding frown from Keith.

That stupid violin prodigy is gonna get the best goddamn notes of his life.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance doesn’t think he’s ever written so many notes in his life. He was so absorbed in making sure his notes were thorough, that his wrist is aching by the end of the lesson, and he knows he’s going to have to stretch before piano practice. Lance is barely able to make out his own chicken scratch, but Keith seems to be reading it just fine.

The dark haired boy tucks his things into his bag, standing to leave as the other students file out of the classroom. At the last moment, he turns around and signs a quick thank you accompanied by a dazzling grin. Lance blinks, blinded for a second.

“Uhh…” he fumbles.

Keith huffs out a little chuckle, and Lance opens his mouth to shoot a snarky retort as his cheeks flair when the other boy interrupts him.

“You’re welcome is-“ Keith says, and makes a curving hand gesture towards himself.

Lance blinks. Keith is looking at him, waiting patiently, so Lance does the polite thing and copies the gesture. Keith’s smile is back and Lance’s gut twists.

That was… Strangely satisfying.

Lance finds himself looking forward to his first ASL lesson even more.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance cracks his knuckles when he finishes his warm down scales. He can hear Shiro’s frown from across the room, but almost two hours of piano practice will give you seriously stiff fingers.

“You’re going to break a finger doing that one day, and then how’re you going to play the piano?” he scolds, using his best Dad Voice.

Lance cracks the knuckles on his other hand in petty retaliation, throwing in a neck click for good measure.

Shiro tuts loudly but doesn’t remark on the subject of Lance’s creaky joints any further.

“You played well today. Really nice finger work on the runs,” Shiro comments, and Lance preens at the praise.

He knows he’s good, but it doesn’t hurt to hear it.

“I couldn’t help but notice your rhythm was a little off, though,” Shiro adds.

Lance abruptly stops patting himself on the back, his features going slack with surprise.

‘W-what??” he scoffs, and Shiro immediately throws up his hands in a peace-keeping gesture.

“Hey now, it wasn’t too noticeable. I only caught it because I’ve heard you play that piece a couple of times before,” he back pedalled, tone soothing.

Lance scowled at him.

“How do you know it wasn’t just my artistic interpretation?” he challenged.

Even to Lance, he sounds a little petty, but his pride demands he follows through with the accusation. Shiro drops his hands, cocking his head to the side in thought.

“I dunno. You just seemed… Distracted,” he mused.

And okay, Lance can’t blame him. He _is_ distracted. Almost unconsciously, he checks his watch. When he looks back at Shiro, he can see the older man eyeing him with the barest hint of a smile curling his mouth.

“Somewhere to be?” he asks airily, though Lance can hear the nosiness behind the seemingly innocent question.

“Yes, actually,” Lance responds, somewhat smugly.

He stands up, snapping the lid of the piano shut, before grabbing his bag and shoving the sheet music into the bottom of it.

“You’re going to lose music that way,” Shiro remarks.

Lance feels a heavy sigh deflate him.

“I know,” he whines. “I lost my piece for the assignment! I managed to rewrite most of it but I really wish I knew where I left the original.”

“The one for the assignment?” Shiro asks, immediately perking up. “Is that the one I helped with? The bit at the end?”

Lance frowns at him.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

Shiro hums out a brief tune. Lance recognises it instantly.

“That’s it!” he shrieks. “That’s the one I lost!”

Shiro smiles at the reaction, folding his arms over his chest. Lance’s elated smile drops in a heartbeat. He’d know that body language on an infant.

“What are you hiding?” he murmurs threateningly.

“Ooooh no,” Shiro chuckles, raising his hands in surrender again. “Nope, I know nothing about your sheet music.”

“LIAR!” Lance yells, pointing an accusatory finger at his friend. “Tell me where it is!”

“I don’t know where your music is, Lance,” Shiro insists. “I’m telling the truth. I’ve just heard it in the practice rooms recently.”

Lance hisses out a string of aggressive Spanish that sends the older man into a peal of laughter.

“Someone in these halls has my music,” Lance spits venomously. “And I’m going to find out who it is.”

“I’m not helping you hide a body,” Shiro says.

“Pidge will.”

“That’s…” Shiro pauses. “That’s true.”

He settles his hand gingerly on Lance’s tense shoulder, flinching slightly when the Cuban fixes him with a fiery glare.

“Didn’t you have somewhere to be?” Shiro gently reminds him.

Lance glances at his watch again and promptly scrambles for his bag.

“Gotta go!” he announces, making a leap for the door.

“You got a hot date or something?” Shiro calls after him.

Lance shoots him a mischievous grin, feeling a warming sense of smugness coil in his gut as Shiro’s expression drops into one of shock.

“Wait, really?!”

But Lance is gone, bolting down the corridor and out into the open air before Shiro can catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try and do like, 1000 words a day? And that'll be 7000 if I get the next chapter done by next week.  
> Big emphasis on the "if".


	7. Your local ASL class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance attends his ASL class only to be greeted with a familiar face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late. I have been crazy busy with work like you would not believe hahahaaa I'm so sleep deprived :))))))
> 
> Anyway, i have a very clear plan for this fic now so hopefully we can get on with regular updates! Thank you for sticking with me this far!

Lance checks the address on his phone for the third time in one minute, peering at the small writing on the screen.

He’s definitely at the right place. The grainy photograph of the building on the course website matches up perfectly with the grey concrete structure in front of him. There’s even a sign on the front door announcing that ASL classes are upstairs, first door on the right.

So why does Lance feel so jittery?

He sighs heavily, stuffing his phone back into his pocket as he takes a stride forwards.

Shortly after paying for the course, the gravity of what he’d done had hit Lance like a freight train. He didn’t have the time or the money to study sign language! Not with the auditions for the talent show coming up. And since he’d have to be working overtime at the coffee shop to pay for the course, it meant less time practicing. Lance had contacted the institute shortly after the payment had left his account, leaving a gaping hole in his already thin finances, but they’d calmly expressed that since he’d purchased within a week of the course starting, sadly it was non-refundable.

Resigning himself to getting the most for his money, Lance had left piano practice early to dart to the venue, hoping that he hadn’t just wasted a lot of money on nothing.

Following the instructions on the door, he trudged along the hallway, taking a sharp left to proceed up the dimly lit staircase. The first door on the right had a small window in it, the light from within shining out into the corridor like a beacon, drawing in people like Lance. He reaches out, letting the palm of his hand lay heavy against the cold wood of the door before exhaling heavily and pushing it open.

Lance doesn’t really know what he’s expecting to find. Rows of desks under flickering fluorescent lights? A squat old teacher that smokes like a chimney and looks like a drill sergeant? Nothing?

Whatever it is, Lance is not prepared for a shock of cascading white hair and a pair of azure hued eyes.

“Lance!” Allura cries, clapping her hands together with obvious delight.

“Uh-“ Lance starts.

He’s cut off by Allura promptly throwing her arms around his shoulders, giving him a bone-crushing squeeze. Lance wheezes slightly as the air is forcibly squashed out of his lungs, and he belatedly gives his friend a soft pat on the back both to reciprocate the affection and to signal that he’s tapping out.

“I could hardly believe it when I saw your name on the member sheet! How great of you to sign up!” Allura cries after she’s finally let go.

“Uh-Yeah. It was sort of an impulse decision?” Lance mumbles.

He ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he averts his eyes from Allura’s sparkling gaze.

“Are you learning for Keith?” she enquires innocently.

Lance feels himself go rigid and he almost chokes on air.

“Wh- _WHAT?_ M’not-NO! I mean obvio- NO! No I’m not!” he splutters angrily.

Allura raises one sceptical eyebrow, biting her lip to suppress a tell tale giggle.

Lance feels like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar: How exactly is he supposed to explain why he’s attending a private institute _off-campus_ to take lessons in ASL not two weeks after Keith arrives. Lance feels himself flush a rather violent shade, and quickly snaps his jaw shut before he can say anything else incriminating.

“What about you?” he cries accusatorily.

Allura’s eyebrows shoot up at the sudden question and Lance wags a finger in her face.

“What are you doing here?”

Allura breathes out a giddy sigh, giving Lance a sort of pitying smile. It makes his stomach writhe like a pit of snakes.

“I signed on to this course as soon as Shiro told me Keith would be attending Altea,” she explains amicably. “I wanted to be able to converse with Keith properly, since Shiro said he gets rather self-conscious about his hearing.”

Lance drops his finger immediately as he feels his mind go blank.

Keith… Self-conscious?

There was something jarring about the image of smart perfect up-and-coming talent Keith Kogane feeling like anything less than the idol he was painted as. Lance fees like Allura’s held up a blue card and insisted that it’s red.

“Anyway, let’s not dally!” Allura breaks his reverie cheerfully. “The class is about to start.”

Lance lets Allura lace her fingers around his elbow and tug him gently towards the ring of chairs that’s been set up in the middle of the room. His feet drag a little as he walks in a daze. His mind is still racing at the comparison of the two Keith’s; one arrogant and annoyingly sure of his talents, the other timid and shying away from any circumstance where he may be compromised by his disability.

Lance feels his knees bend as he plops down into one of the cheap plastic chairs, but he doesn’t really register the action. It feels like everything is starting to come into focus – Keith’s permanent scowl, his wariness around new people. It’s all starting to make sense.

Heck, Lance doesn’t know how he’d cope with have impaired hearing in a musical world, but he’d surely put up just as many defensive walls as a certain raven haired violinist he knew.

“Lance?” Allura says frowning.

It sounds like she’s calling him from very far away, and Lance’s eyes are hazy as he turns towards her concerned expression.

“Hey, Allura, could you um… Could you do me a favour?” Lance asks nervously.

Allura nods her head, waiting patiently for him to speak.

“Would you mind not telling anyone that I’m taking these classes?”

Allura’s frown deepens as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and her lips press into a hard line as if she’s holding back a string of questions.

After a tense second, she dips her head in silent agreement.

“Of course, Lance. This will stay between us,” she promises.

Lance breathes out a shaky lungful of air, letting the tension ease from his muscles as he slumps down in the seat.

“May I ask why?” Allura forges on.

Lance chews his lip as he laces his fingers together behind his head contemplating.

“I just… I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea?” he says after a moment.

Allura frowns again, waiting for him to elaborate. Lance huffs out another sigh, releasing one hand to run it raggedly through his hair.

“Look, me and Keith didn’t get off to the best start I know. And things are fine now, sort of? We have first period together on Monday and he’s even agreed to teach me a few words in ASL but I just- I don’t want anyone thinking I’m doing this _for_ him, you know? I’m doing this for me,” Lance explains.

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything, and by the look on Allura’s face it sounds that way too. Lance flashes her a sideways glance only to see a secretive smile curl the corner of her mouth.

“I mean it,” he asserts before she can get any wicked ideas. “It’ll be good for me to learn another language. And if I just _happen_ to be able to talk to Keith as well then our group will be all the better for it.”

With that, Lance crosses his arms firmly over his chest and turns his head towards the centre of the circle, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the last few people settling into their seats.

“Oh I wholeheartedly agree,” Allura says. There’s a definite lilt to her tone, like she’s trying to stifle a laugh. “That’s exactly why I’m here too. It’s so nice that I’ll just _happen_ to be able to communicate more clearly with Keith.”

Lance bites down on his reaction, stubbornness being the only thing keeping from turning to Allura and telling her exactly why this isn’t about Keith. Instead, he settles for a solid pout as a pretty blonde-haired girl stands up in her seat and introduces herself as the teacher for the course.

After half an hour of going over the basics, Lance is confident he can hold a very simple conversation.

The teacher (Nyma, as she introduced herself) has them pair up with each other to practice stringing the hand gestures together in a sentence. Allura gets paired up with a sweet young boy who has bright blue hearing his peeking out from under his tawny locks. Lance is settled with a cranky older lady who keeps swatting his hands whenever he makes a mistake. He can hear Allura chuckling from the other side of the room every time he pauses between motions and the old lady’s hand snakes out to smack him none too kindly on the arm.

After an hour, Lance feels at ease with asking basic questions. He’s also learned how to string his sentences together quickly after a particularly nasty rap to his funny bone that’s resulted in a throbbing red welt. Lance testes his aching joint gingerly as the class return their chairs into the circle at the centre of the room. The old lady he’s been practising with is shooting him a serious stink eye, and he resists the urge to stick his tongue out her childishly for fear she might lunge across the space and beat him with her cane.

When the full ninety minutes was up, Lance feels a warm gratifying sense of achievement curling up like a fuzzy ball in his chest. Granted his hand movements are still a bit shaky a staggered, unlike Allura’s graceful arching motions, but he feels as if he’s truly learned something helpful this evening. It’s enough to have him feeling jittery with excitement for the next lesson.

“Alright! Good work everyone!” Nyma says encouragingly from where she sits cross-legged in her seat. “You’ve all got the basics of ASL conversation down really well! Lance, I saw some really fast improvement on your end. Well done!”

Lance preens with the praise, running one hand through his hair to push it back as he winks at Nyma from across the circle.

“Well it helps that I have an amazing teacher,” he says smoothly, before. “OW!”

Pain shoots up his shin, and he follows the source of it with his eyes up the cane rod to the bitter scowl from Old Lady. He rubs his shin morosely as he shoots the woman a glare that could melt sand. Nyma just giggles, waving a hand at him daintily as she remains completely oblivious to Lance’s struggle with his partner.

“Aw, you’re so sweet!” she laughed, tossing one long blonde pigtail over her shoulder. “But don’t get comfortable just yet. I’m giving you all homework.”

“Homework?!” Lance’s garbled cry attracts the attention of every eye in the room.

He winces as Old Lady smack him in the shin again, and promptly curls his knees up to his chin, pouting fiercely at her.

“It’s only a little thing,” Nyma is quick to assure them. “Pass these sheets around, please. They have some basic vocabulary and frequently used words on them for you to review. It’s good to get them in your head early on so you don’t forget!”

Lance takes one of the sheets handed to him, letting his eyes wander the images over the page with mild curiosity. It’s mostly small grainy images of hands making certain movements, indicated clearly with arrows. The meaning is written underneath in plain script, and Lance let’s his brain absorb the words absently as his gaze trails over the illustrations. It’s very simple things: Can/can’t, do/don’t, will/won’t, etc.

He folds the page carefully, reaching underneath his seat for his bag. As Nyma continues to talk about learning the words, he places the sheet in between the pages of his composing book, letting the weight of the book hold it between the sheets covered in his messy scrawls.

Absently, Lance wonders when he’ll get a chance to look at the sheet again. Between extra shifts, piano practice, and school, he’s not sure where exactly the time for learning ASL is going to be coming from. How does Pidge manage to do that much work in such a short amount of time? Perhaps she’s invented some sort of machine that bends reality? Lance wouldn’t put it past her, considering all of the weird tech she’d built that warped the way people heard sounds.

“I’m so happy you’ve decided to learn ASL!” Allura exclaims as the two make their way out of the building. “I think it’ll really help bring everyone together.”

“I thought we were already together?” Lance queries.

“Oh I meant with Keith,” Allura elaborates.

And for a split second, Lance’s mind puts two and two together and comes up with eleven.

“I don’t want to be together with Keith.”

The words tumble from his lips as if he’s on autopilot, and Allura stops dead I her tracks.

“You mustn’t try to keep Keith on the outside, Lance,” she says warningly. “It is unfair.”

Lance stops walking, turning to look back at his friend. There’s a thinly veiled threat in her eyes, and her jaw is set in a way that tells Lance she’s about to break out her Mum Voice.

“That’s not what I meant!” he backtracks rapidly. “I meant like… You know, _together_ together.”

Allura blinks at him, non-plussed.

“Keith likes dudes,” Lance tries to explain, before mentally kicking himself.

Why the hell did he say that??

But it’s too late – There’s a whisper of a smirk tainting Allura’s otherwise impassive face.

“Oh nope!” Lance cries, throwing his hands up in immediate surrender. “No you- nononono you don’t. What ever you’re thinking, stop.”

Allura’s carefully constructed façade of innocence wavers, threatening to be overtaken by a wolfish grin.

“I didn’t say anything,” she reminds him in a sing-song tone.

Lance groans loudly. Allura ignores him, resuming her pace as she tries to stifle a laugh. Lance falls into step beside her, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he resists the urge to pout.

“Allura,” he says after a few seconds. “I can _hear_ you thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking what you’d expect,” she says mysteriously, and Lance shoots her a sideways glance.

That soft smile is playing on her lips, the same one that had Lance’s heart doing the rumba once upon a time. He’d stopped hitting on Allura pretty quickly after she’d explained that his advances, although mostly in jest, sometimes made her feel uncomfortable. He’d done his best to make it up to her, and the two had formed a bond similar to ones he had with him own siblings. Recently though, Lance had seen that same smile that could make flowers grow appear on Allura’s face whenever she was around Shiro.

“I just think it’s really nice of you to learn ASL for Keith,” she continued, interrupting Lance’s train of thought. “Really, Lance.”

Lance felt a warm glow of praise fill him up like a light, subconsciously lifting his shoulders a little closer to his ears as he ducked his head to hide the blush that threatened to creep over his sharp cheekbones.

“Thanks, Allura,” he muttered, and Allura beamed at him.

She said goodbye to Lance as she reached her bike, pulling him into a firm hug before swinging her leg over the vehicle and taking off. It was only when Lance saw her taillights disappear round the corner that his brain caught up.

“I’m not learning FOR Keith,” he grumbled, painfully aware that he was talking to himself.

He isn’t learning for Keith, Lane reminds himself. That’s not the reason. It would just be useful for them all to be able to communicate. If anything he’s learning it for the _group._

Lance gives a self-affirming nod, happy with his conclusion. He loves his friends, and he’d do anything for them. And if that meant learning sign language so that Keith wouldn’t feel left out then fine, he was doing them all a favour. As annoying as Lance knew he could be sometimes, he didn’t really want to be the only person in the group unable to converse non-verbally. He also didn’t want to be that douchebag that was happy in his ignorance, so learn ASL he would.

The walk back to campus isn’t far. Lance feels jittery from overthinking so he decides to jog most of the way. By the time he gets back to his room, the stress of the whole day’s work hit him at once. He drags his feet across the floor, barely managing to kick off his shoes before he faceplants heavily onto the bed. Swiping blindly, Lance catches his the fabric of his bag just enough to drag it towards him. Rolling over onto his back, he pulls out the sheet Nyma gave him, letting his tired eyes roam a bit more thoroughly over the gestures.

“Maybe I’ll remember them better if I look at them before I got to sleep,” he thinks aloud.

The thought drifts away quickly as Lance’s eyelids begin to droop. The last thing he thinks is the repeating gestures I his head. Will/won’t, do/don’t, can/can’t.

 

 

“Shit!”

Lance’s voice rings loud through the practice room as his finger slips off the piano key. He bites his tongue, setting his jaw to stop a string of angry expletives from marching out of his mouth. Grabbing his pencil, he furiously scribbles out the last few bars on the sheet music in front of him.

It’s bad enough that he’d lost his composition: He’d returned to the practice room to search for it, even going so far as to ask the front desk if anyone had handed it in, but so far the precious music had all but vanished. What made matters worse is that Lance’s hands seemed to have a mind of their own today. Every time he tried to practice a few runs, his fingers warped into some strange position, causing a jarring clash of notes to ring through his otherwise perfect technique. Lance cast his mind back to that day in the library. He’d already written in the changes Shiro had made, but the haziness of sleep deprivation had thoroughly fogged over the better part of his memory for that day. It’s like he can hear the tune, but it’s in a different room, the notes thick and muffled. Lance tries to reach out and pluck them from the air, but they slip from his grasp, hovering just out of reach, teasing him.

He groans inwardly, scribbling a few alternative staves over the bars on the sheet before placing it back atop the piano and starting again. He gets halfway through the piece before his brow furrows in frustration. Not a second later, he hits a wrong note. Looking down, he spies his index fingers pointing towards each other.

 _Can’t,_ his mind supplies.

Lance’s breathing hitches, and he reflexively curls his hands into fists to shirk the offending gesture.

He’d been subconsciously forming the hand movement for the word “can’t”.

 _I’m just tired,_ he tells himself, running a hand through his clipped brown locks in agitation. There’s a steady tap of his heel as his leg bounces, and suddenly Lance feels too tight in his own skin.

He reaches out a hand to whisk his bag off the floor, rooting through it for his life until his fingers graze against something cold and metal. Dropping the bag, he pulls out the stim toy out of his bag. It’s a Mobius flower, the thin coils of metal wrapping around each other in an infinite loop. Lance tagged a ragged breath, breathing out shakily as he twists the flower between his fingertips, letting the metal cool them. It takes a few minutes, but the repetitive action allows him to focus. It’s like to chill of the metal is seeping up his slender fingers into Lance’s body, slowing him down from the inside out. He continues to twist the flower backwards, forwards, finally looking up to rake his eyes over the sheet music again.

A firm knock at the door startles him, and Lance jumps, letting the toy drop into his lap. His head whips around to see a pair of shining indigo eyes peeking out at him from underneath a mop of tangled black hair.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Keith says, stepping into the practice room.

Lance lets out a huff of breath, letting his coiled muscles relax a little.

“S’okay,” he mumbles, shooting Keith a half smile before turning back to the piano.

He catches the way Keith’s eyes linger on the toy resting atop his leg, and quickly shoves it into his bag. It’s not that he’s embarrassed, but it’s none of Keith’s business.

“What are you working on?” Keith asks, coming to stand behind Lance.

He leans in close, a little closer than Lance feels is friendly mind, but he turns his head and focuses intently on Lance’s lips.

_Oh. Lip-reading._

“Hang on a sec,” Lance says, holding up a finger just to make sure Keith has understood.

He grabs a notebook out of his bag and flips to a blank page, yanking the pen out of the binding rings to scribble down a quick message.

**I’m trying to remember a composition I lost.**

Keith’s eyes flicker over the words, flecks of navy catching the light in his eyes. Lance tries not to feel self-conscious about his chicken scratch before telling himself he doesn’t care what Keith thinks. At all. Not one bit.

Keith’s gaze switches to glide over the music on the piano, methodically taking in the rapidly scrawled melody. Lance watches him bob his head in time with the music playing silently in his head and vaguely wonders if he likes it.

 _Not that I care,_ he tells himself again.

Yet he can’t help but feel fidgety that heralded violin virtuoso Keith Kogane is looking over his composition. Lance desperately wishes he could pull out his stim toy again and twist it until his fingers are raw, but he fights the urge with every nerve in his body. He settles with wringing his fingers in his lap, hoping that it doesn’t look like the nervous tick it most definitely is.

“You wrote this?” Keith asks after a moment.

A small pinch has formed between his thick brows, and Lance blinks as Keith uncharacteristically chews on his bottom lip. Lance nods in answer, a gentle bob of his head.

 _“You_ wrote this?” Keith asks again.

He turns the full force of his violet gaze on Lance, and the taller boy feels a ripple of anxiety pass through him at the strange look on Keith’s face. He looks caught between worry and anger, and Lance immediately feels his hackles rise in defence.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” he says loudly, crossing his arms angrily over his chest.

Keith just frowns harder, and Lance rolls his eyes as he grabs the notebook to write down his response.

“That’s not what I meant,” Keith fires back after reading it. “I was just-“

“Hey!”

Both boys look up from their glaring match to see Shiro enter the room, pulling his black scarf from around his neck and tucking it into his jacket pocket. The end of it trails along the glazed floor of the practice room as he walks but if he notices he doesn’t seem to mind.

“What’s going on?” Shiro asks, signing as he speaks.

His tone in amicable, but there’s an underlying grumble that tell Lance he’s ready to break out the Dad Voice.

“Nothing,” Lance mutters, balling his hands into fists to stop his fidgeting.

Keith stays suspiciously quiet, and Lance sneaks a glance up at him to see the other boy glaring at the sheet music as if it has personally offended him.

 _He’s obviously just jealous of my talents,_ Lance thinks harshly.

“You still working on that piece, Lance?” Shiro enquires after a tense moment.

“Yeah but it’s just not coming together!” Lance replies with a huff of exasperation.

Shiro picks up one of the sheets, his eyes raking down the page at an alarming speed.

Then he does something strange.

Shiro places the pages carefully back on the piano before turning and signing something at Keith. There’s a heavy question weighing down his eyes, as if someone’s added lead to their steely colour, and Lance glances between the two brothers with growing concern.

Keith signs back, shaking his head. Lance watches his hand movements, picking out one or two words from his class the night before. That’s when he sees it.

Two index fingers, one moving down in a sharp drop.

_Can’t._

“Can’t what?”

The words pop out of his mouth like a champagne cork, and Shiro’s head snaps to Lance so quickly the brown boy can almost hear the click of his neck.

Shiro’s mouth forms a small ‘O’ whilst Keith looks between the two of them with obvious confusion. He gives a small wag of his finger.

_What?_

“How… How much of that did you understand?” Shiro asks conspicuously.

And suddenly Lance feels a horrible wash of insecurity.

“What?” he demands, trying and failing to keep his voice from rising. “You think you can just talk about me whilst I’m here? That’s seriously uncool, Shiro!”

“Lance that’s not-“

“No no, it’s _fine!”_ Lance snaps, cutting the older boy off. “You guys wanna talk about me, go right ahead. Just don’t expect me to sit here and watch whilst you do. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Lance snatches his sheet music off the piano rest, not even caring that he’s crumpling them in his shaking fist.

“Lance, wait!” Shiro cries, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. “That’s not what was happening, I promise!”

Lance takes a shaky breath in, letting his quivering hands fall to his sides. He feels bad for blowing up but he can’t help it. He’s insecure and he’s _trying._

“I was just surprised you knew the sign, that’s all,” Shiro assures him, voice steady and calm like a rock the ocean beats against. And guess who’s the tumultuous tide.

“Have you been learning ASL?” Shiro asks. He lets Lance’s shoulder go to sign his sentence so that Keith can be privy to the conversation.

Keith’s eyes zero in on him before he turns his piercing gaze towards Lance. The taller boy can’t help but squirm by that diamond-cutting stare, and he can feel heat creeping up his face.

“No,” he lies, looking away.

He can see Shiro’s soft smile out the corner of his eye, and if ever there was a way to make a smirk affectionate, Shiro was doing it in full force.

“Whatever, I’m done practising,” Lance says quickly before the older boy can open up that particular can of worms.

And without so much as a backwards glance, he gathers up his bag and skips out of the practice room, glad that he’s managed to avoid looking at Keith.

Belatedly he realises that Shiro is probably going to talk to Keith about everything that just happened, and he buries his face in his hands.

Stupid Keith.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Keith, you don't know what you're in for :)
> 
> Let me know what you think! Thoughts, theories, deep heartfelt requests for what you hope to see. I might pick some of them!!


	8. Cards Against Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang argue over pineapple pizza and play a card game for horrible people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo okay, this chapter was a difficult one. Massive thank you @fluffytheasianpanda for beta-ing this fic.  
> I was going to continue onto the next scene but I didn't want to make it too long and since it's almost been two weeks I thought I'd just upload it.
> 
> A few things first to clarify: Keith suffers from hearing fading - he's mostly deaf, but he can hear some sounds and loud noises just VERY muffled and very quiet. That's what the hearing aids are for.
> 
> Secondly - it's exhausting to write whenever people are signing, and I'll bet it's boring to read. So from now on, unless the hand sign is relevant to the scene I will be using a key to indicate when ASL is being used.
> 
> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."
> 
> < If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING. >
> 
> I hope this makes things clear! I'll put the key at the start of every chapter in case people forget.

Lance sits up from where he’s been hunched over cross-legged on the sofa.

He arches his back, bracing his hands against his hips so that his vertebrae click satisfyingly.

“Ew, Lance your back sounds like a machine gun,” Pidge says, wrinkling her nose.

Lance rolls his shoulders, ignoring the dull ache in his muscles.

“Thanks for helping me with those notes for Iverson,” he says. “Guy’s seriously got it out for me.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I can’t help every day,” Pidges replies, adjusting her glasses.

“Don’t worry about it. I know you’ve got that big project you’ve been working on.”

Lance continues to flex his joints, and Pidge winces at each new crack, distracting herself by typing furiously on her laptop.

“I didn’t tell you about that,” she hums suspiciously.

“I figured. You normally have a thing that consumes all godly hours on this Earth,” Lance shrugs.

He bends his head to the side, working out a particularly tight coil in his neck before rubbing at the spot with obvious agitation. He arches his back again, wiggling his hips experimentally to try and click the lingering tension out of his joints.

“Can you stop?” Pidge winces, eyeing Lance as he bends at a frankly alarming angle.

There’s a niggling tightness just below his back dimples that he can’t seem to shake.

“Argh, if I could just-“

Lance stands, taking a step away from the sofa to position himself on the floor. He plants his hands and knees firmly apart before pressing up into a downward facing dog.

“Right…”

Lance bends his legs in turn, giving his body a small shimmy as he breathes through the stretch. Closing his eyes, he exhales, letting his chest sink further down as he presses his heels back until—

_CLICK_

_“There,”_ Lance moans as the tension leaves his back, cycling his legs again for extra measure.

“Ugh, _I_ felt that,” Pidge comments from her place on the sofa.

Reflexively, she rolls her own shoulders in an echo of Lance’s movements, eliciting a small _crunch_ sound from her grinding joints. Lance grimaces at the noise, his face screwing up with distaste.

“You and I are getting massages this weekend, Pidgeon. No arguments,” he says from his yoga position, voice slightly distorted as his head hangs upside down.

“With what money? I thought you were broke.”

Lance hums in thought, his eyes flickering to the small girl’s in a silent conversation before they mouth open their mouths to speak.

“Hunk,” they agree.

Pidge gives Lance an affirming nod before turning back to her computer. Lance resumes wiggling his hips, trying to work free any lingering knots that have settled stubbornly in his back. A second later he hears the sound of the kitchen door swinging open and the slapping patter of footsteps.

“Well hello there, Lance,” Shiro’s voice sails smoothly over to where the tall boy is folding in half.

Lance pokes his head out to the side to shoot a cat-like grin at the older man, but it freezes half-formed on his face when he realises that Shiro isn’t alone.

Keith is stood next to his brother, arms crossed firmly over his chest, his steely eyes staring out at Lance from under his dark tresses. He looks a little surprised at Lance’s somewhat compromising position, to say the least, and Lance sees a goldmine of opportunity.

“Well _hello,_ my dear Shirogane,” Lance drawls, letting his grin stretch to near-Cheshire width. “How delightful of you to-“

Lance dramatically flips himself over, sticking one leg out in the air as he lies back on the floor, stretching his arms out overhead.

“ _Drop by.”_

Shiro barely stifles a laugh, his prosthetic hand coming up to brace against his cheekbones as Pidge audibly rolls her eyes.

“Lance, get up,” Shiro chuckles, reaching out a hand to help the lanky boy to his feet.

Lance takes it, letting Shiro’s superior strength all but lift him from the floor. He wobbles slightly, letting himself totter forwards into Shiro’s arm as his knees buckle. Shiro catches him with ease, albeit with a little surprise, his dark brows shooting towards his hairline as his arms wind around Lance’s small waist.

“Oh, my!” Lance gasps as he flattens himself against Shiro’s chest. “You’re so strong! My _hero!”_

Lance pops one leg movie-style as he traces the tip of one slender finger over Shiro’s collarbone and down his bulging bicep. Even though he’s acting up, Lance marvels slightly at how the bigger man doesn’t even seem to be flexing, a petulant sort of envy flickering somewhere in the back of his mind. Lance had only ever been able to pile on lean muscle after years of swimming. Any and all attempts to gain bulk had resulted in a very whiny red-faced boy and a lot of injuries.

“Oh my god, Shiro, just drop him,” Pidge calls from the other side of the room.

She’s trying to sound exasperated, but there’s a lilt to her tone that suggests she’s trying to smother her laughter. Lance makes an over-the-top gasping noise, shooting Pidge a very offended look.

“My big handsome man would _never_!” he huffs.

Pidge snorts in response.

“So, sailor,” Lance continues, turning back to Shiro. He boops the end of Shiro’s nose lightly as he gives him a sultry smile, looping his other arm around the man’s shoulders. “Come here often?”

“Okay, Lance, I think that’s enough,” Shiro says with a small chuckle.

He gently but firmly puts Lance back on his feet, despite the furious pouting of the brown-haired boy. Lance presses the back of his wrist to his forehead, making a big show of clutching his chest.

“Rejection!” he cries, curling himself inwards as if Shiro had stolen his very heart.

When he straightens up, his eyes flickered over to Keith to see the shorter boy glaring at him. There is a strained flush high on his cheeks, and he’s scowling in a way that looks more like a pout than anything.

 _Cute,_ Lance thinks. He can’t resist the temptation to mess with him a little.

“What’s the matter, mullet?” Lance says, cocking one hip as he raises an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

Keith just continues to scowl at him, his blush darkening against his throat.

“Lance,” Shiro starts, a whisper of warning in his tone.

“Relax, darling,” Lance says airily. “The language of love is universal.”

He punctuates his statement with a waggle of his eyebrows at Keith, shooting the scowling boy his brightest smile. Keith makes a strange noise and hurriedly looks away, his jaw jutting out even further than before. Lance cackles at his own brilliance. Messing with Keith was _fun._

“Lance, stop flirting with the brothers, you homewrecker,” Pidge snickers, pushing her glasses further up her button nose.

Lance suddenly realises who’s standing in his kitchen. Ah yes, the brothers Shirogane and Kogane. The Broganes, as Hunk had taken to calling them (a name which Lance wholeheartedly approved of). He also remembers their last encounter and feels a hot wash of embarrassment seep through his skin. Neither of the brothers seems to mind. Perhaps they hadn’t thought he’d been all that weird? God, Lance hopes so.

“What are you guys doing here anyway?” he asks, hopping back on the sofa.

He manages to jostle Pidge in the process, and she squawks indignantly as a few of her notes scatter to the floor. Lance pats her on the head, dodging a swipe as he leans over to pluck the few papers from where they’d settled on the linoleum.

“Oh, the others didn’t tell you?” Shiro asks. “We were all gonna order pizza and play Cards Against Humanity.”

Lance’s reaction is immediate. He jumps to his knees, disrupting the papers he’d just replaced as he slaps his hands together with joy. Pidge opens her mouth to complain about the loss of her notes, but seems to resign herself to their fate halfway through, and instead just releases a world-weary sigh.

“Oooooh!” Lance squeaks with delight. “YES! Good call, Pidgeotto!”

He punches her lightly in the arm, and she cracks a smile despite herself.

“Yeah yeah, just don’t let Hunk order Hawaiian,” she says, punching Lance back a little too hard. “You know he’ll do it. He has no shame.”

Lance grumbles, rubbing his arm where Pidge has punched him.

“I gotta agree with you there, dude. I love the guy but he has no respect for appropriate pizza toppings.”

Shiro coughs awkwardly as he pulls out a chair from the small dining table, Keith following suit.

Lance opens his mouth in horror.

“Shiro, _NO!_ ”

“I don’t _mind_ pineapple on pizza,” Shiro clarifies.

He has the good grace to look a little ashamed. It doesn’t sate Lance’s disappointment however.

“And to think I ever loved you,” he sighs wistfully, leaning back to drape himself over the arm of the sofa.

“Hey now,” Shiro says, raising his hands in surrender.

“Yeah, that’s right. Backpedal,” Lance says, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

Shiro just sighs in defeat, running one hand through his hair to brush back the short white forelock that hangs in his eyes. He won’t let Lance trim it, despite the lanky boy’s protests.

Keith continues to stare at Lance from over the table, his dark eyes betraying no emotion. Lance locks eyes with him, his grin quavering a little at the intensity of Keith’s gaze. A beat passes, and Lance lets his eyes wander down Keith’s face, over his chest. He’d missed it before, but it’s obvious that Keith and Shiro have similar body types.

The set of the shorter boy’s shoulder speaks definitively of strength, and the way his shirt stretches a little over his pecs makes Lance wonder if he’s wearing a size too small deliberately or if he’s just _that_ muscular. A little shiver passes through him before he can stop it, and Lance’s eyes frantically snap back up to Keith’s to see the other boy still watching him.

He mentally shakes himself, telling his mind not to read into things when the front door opens and Hunk steps over the threshold. He’s carrying a long black box under his arm, one Lance recognises as the ultimate expansion pack for the card game. Trust Hunk to have the entire set.

“Oh, good! Everyone’s here!” he says, shrugging off his jacket.

“Allura says to tell you she’s sorry but she’s got a gig tonight,” Shiro called across the room.

Lance watches Shiro's hand movements carefully, seeing what words he can pick up in the sentence. He recognises “she” but the was about it.

Lance sighs heavily. He’d assumed that because he already spoke two languages, learning another would be a breeze, but boy was he wrong. It only really just occurs to Lance that he has signed himself up for the long haul.

“Oh, that’s cool!” Hunk says cheerily. “We’ll just catch her next time.”

“Alright!” Pidge pipes up, finally closing her laptop and setting it aside. “Order pizza first, then Cards Against Humanity.”

“ME!” Lance shouts.

He leans over the table, one hand braced against the smooth surface as he reaches towards the pamphlet on the fridge. He can feel the cool air of the kitchen hit his midriff as he stretches out, shirt riding up his stomach as he lifts one leg to keep his balance. The pizza menu is out of reach by a wide margin, though Lance continues to reach for it regardless, his hand flapping uselessly in the air. Huffing in annoyance, Lance looks down at Keith.

The shorter boy is leaning back in his seat a bit, clearly surprised at the sudden invasion into his personal space. When he glances up at Lance, there’s a definite pinkness to his cheeks. The tall boy doesn’t dwell on it, though, too distract by the task at hand.

“Can you get me the…” Lance pouts, gesturing openly at the fridge.

Keith blinks, not understanding, so Lance waves his arm a little more aggressively. Keith slowly turns around, looking at the fridge, then back to Lance.

“The thing!” Lance elaborates, pointing at the menu.

Keith reaches tentatively towards the fridge door, looking back at Lance for assurance. Lance keeps pointing, bobbing his wrist slightly to belabour his point.

At this point, Keith can no longer lean any further back in his seat. He stands silently, taking a step towards the refrigerator, pausing when he reaches it to turn back towards Lance. Keith gingerly pinches the corner of the menu, eyes darting back to Lance with a question in his eyes.

“YEAH!” Lance shouts with a grin.

Encouraged by the positive response, Keith plucks the menu off the fridge before making his way back over to the brunette. Lance grins triumphantly, all but snatching the menu out of Keith’s outstretched hand. He looks up at the raven-haired boy, signing a quick _thank you_ with glittering eyes. Keith just smiles, before turning his head to give an awkward cough, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Lance eyes drop to the menu, scanning it quickly for what he wants. An idea comes to him suddenly.

“What’s your stance on pineapple pizza?” Lance asks, head snapping up to look at Keith.

The raven just blinks at him, his eyes narrowing in the beginnings of a frown.

_Oh… Yeah._

“Pizza?” Lance asks again.

This time he reaches up to fingerspell the word. Keith’s eyes go a little wider, and if Lance didn’t know better he’d swear that a light tinge of pink dusting the pale skin of Keith’s cheeks.

“Wiiiiith… Shiro, what’s the sign for ‘pineapple’?” Lance asks, looking over Keith’s shoulder at his brother.

Shiro’s eyebrows go up a little, but he obligingly lifts one hand to make a simple gesture. He curls his thumb and forefinger together, letting the rest of his fingers splay out as he makes a twisting motion over his eye.

“That’s awesome,” Lance muses aloud.

He turns his attention back to Keith, circling his fingers into the same position Shiro had shown him.

_< ”Pineapple… Pizza. Yes or no?”>_

Keith’s eyebrows rise in surprise. After a second, a soft smile makes its way lazily across his face, and his stretches out his hand.

_< No.>_

“Fuck yeah!” Lance cries.

He surges forward, wrapping his arms around Keith’s neck, ignoring the other boy’s small noise of shock. The hug lasts all of two seconds before Lance lets go, leaving one arm draped around Keith’s shoulders.

“Score three against two for Team Fuck-the-nonsense-that-is-pineapple-on-pizza!” Lance yells triumphantly.

Hunk groans loudly, and Shiro covers his eyes as his shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“That’s a terrible team name,” Pidge remarks.

“Like you’ve got any better.”

Pidge shrugs. “Maybe Team PiNOpple?”

“Weak,” Lance says dismissively.

Pidge just sticks her tongue out at him. Lance is about to stick his tongue out right back when he feels a sudden warmth against his waist. His head nearly falls off his shoulders it whips down so fast to see the source of the sensation.

Keith’s hand is resting gently on Lance’s hip, his fingers just barely grazing the small sliver of flesh peeking out between the tall boy’s t-shirt and his sweats. His fingers are unnaturally hot, and Lance feels as if they’re searing a brand into his skin.

He instinctively leans away from the contact, inadvertently shifting his weight further towards Keith’s body. The action causes the tip of Keith’s thumb to skim underneath the shirt hem, rubbing a feather light touch over the smooth skin there. Almost unconsciously, Keith’s fingers wrap a little tighter around the sharply protruding hip bone, the pale tips disappearing slightly as they press into the warm brown of Lance’s flesh.

The tall boy whirls around to shoot Keith a startled look, only to see the other boy wearing the absolute same expression. Keith blinks dumfounded, seemingly suddenly aware of exactly where his hand is and what his thumb is doing.

“Uh…” Lance hums.

Keith quickly rips his hand away from Lance’s hip, decidedly looking away from the other boy. Lance carefully unhooks his arm from around Keith’s shoulders, like he’s taking a step on a minefield; wary he might set something off. He takes what he hopes is a subtle step to the side, thinking it best to give Keith the space he was craving. Keith didn’t seem like a very touchy person.

He’s aware of everyone looking at him. Pidge and Shiro are wearing equally confused expressions, frown lines creasing their foreheads. Keith himself just stands there, arm still lingering in the air as his features twist with perplexity.

Only Hunk doesn’t seem put out. In fact, the face Hunk is shooting Lance is downright unnerving. After his eyebrows had initially shot up at Lance’s stiff attempt to gracefully move away from Keith’s touch, now they sink slowly back down. Hunk mouth stretches into a crooked grin, and Lance suddenly feels like he’s been left out of the loop, like Hunk has a huge secret that he’s not going to share.

“Pepperoni!” Lance blurts suddenly, desperate to shift the attention of the room. “We’re getting pepperoni pizza.”

“Dude, pineapple,” Hunk pouts.

Lance shakes his head firmly.

“Noooope! No, you Neanderthals have been outvoted. Pepperoni it is.”

“I mean,” Hunk begins, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about you guys, but I could literally go for a whole pizza right now. I’ll take an entire Hawaiian for myself, thanks. Take one for the team, you know?”

Lance eyes him distrustfully, clinging the pizza flyer protectively closer to his chest.

“I can split one with Pidge,” Shiro offers up.

“Yeah!” Hunk interjects quickly. “And Lance, you split one with Keith!”

Lance’s head snaps up at that, watching in mild horror as Shiro signs Hunk’s words out before Lance has even drawn breath to tell his friend to shut up.

“I’m happy splitting,” Keith says, turning his eyes back on Lance.

The tall boy opens and closes his mouth at a loss for words. Really, there’s no reason for him to object is there? He and Keith were supposed to be “friends” now, so what excuse could he possibly have for not wanting to split a pizza? It would just make ordering food a whole lot harder than it had to be.

“F-fine,” Lance mutters with a small nod.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hunk smirking at him. He shoots back an inquisitive look, cocking his head to the side in silent question, but Hunk just turns away.

_What the heck is he up to?_

Lance takes one step towards to phone hanging on the wall next to the fridge, and promptly falls smack on his face. He lets out a loud cry of surprise before landing in a mess of limbs.

“Owwwwww,” Lance groans, rubbing his forehead in pain.

He looks down to see what offending item he’d fallen over to see the black box Hunk had been carrying into the kitchen the week before.

“Rover!” Hunk cries, leaping over to where Lance lies.

He brushes Lance leg off the top of the box, checking over it for damage, concern contorting his face.

<“Rover?”> Pidge asks in confusion. <“You named it?”>

//“What the hell is that thing?” Lance asks, making his way to his feet.

Hunk cradles the box a little, shooting Lance a wary look.

//”It’s a surprise,” he says cryptically. When Lance gives him a bored look, he simply adds. //“It’s not finished yet.”

“Well, whatever. Can you maybe put it somewhere that people aren’t going to fall over it? Someone could hurt themself! And that someone could be _me!”_ Lance huffs.

Hunk just gives him an apologetic smile before hoisting the box onto his hip and lugging it into his bedroom.

He emerges after a few seconds with empty arms and a smile on his face.

//”Pizza?”

 

* * *

 

When the pizzas arrive, the gang have already set themselves up in a circle on the floor. Pidge had all but torn the pillows from everyone’s rooms, despite a barrage of loud protests from Lance about personal hygiene and getting pink eye if someone farted on his pillow.

“Don’t be gross, Lance,” Pidge says, not even looking up from where she’s dealing out the playing cards. “Only you’d do something like that.”

“Pidgey, I would _never_ stoop so low!” Lance counters with genuine offence.

Pidge just raises her eyebrows skeptically.

It doesn’t take long for the game to fall into full hilarity – Hunk’s choice of entertainment had been spot-on since Shiro and Pidge didn’t need to sign out any of the answers.

//“Man, I can’t believe I’m losing!” Hunk pouts as he stares at his solitary black card.

He squints disappointedly at the white cards in his hands. His large fingers wrap around them secretly, making them appear much smaller in comparison to his broad grip.

<“That’s because you always try to pick the nicest answer,”> Pidge explains. <”The tagline for Cards Against Humanity is literally ‘A party game for horrible people.”>

//”Yeah, that’s why Pidge is winning.” Lance chimes in.

<”You’re coming second,”> Pidge remarks nonchalantly, reshuffling the white cards in her hands.

Lance shoots Pidge a quick scowl before leaning over to wrap one long arm around Hunk’s broad back.

//”Hunk is too pure for this game. I’d expect nothing less from a literal angel.”

Lance punctuates his point by giving Hunk a loving pat on the head. Hunk blushes, ducking his head to shoot his friend a bashful grin.

//”Aw my gosh, stop it.”

Lance gives Hunk a light squeeze before letting go, rocking his body upright from where he’d been draped over his friend. His eyes wander to the neat pile of black cards sitting far too innocently next to Shiro’s knee.

//”Now, see, frankly Shiro I’m just disappointed in you.” Lance says, pointing accusatorily at the pile. //”Is that any example to set for your children?”

Shiro actually looks a little sheepish, but it’s tainted by the wicked glint in his eye.

<”I thought we were playing to win?”> he asks coyly.

Lance just snorts softly in response, throwing the neat stack of black cards a suspicious glance before turning his head towards Keith.

<”Keith’s doing better than I thought,”> Pidge remarks, as if on cue.

<”He’s worse than people take him for,”> Shiro says, and Keith promptly smacks him on the arm.

“Look who’s talking,” Keith snaps.

His harsh tone is softened by the affectionate look in his eye as Shiro chuckles, reaching out to ruffle Keith’s hair a bit. Lance’s eyes drop to the black cards that Keith’s won. It’s more than he’d expected, but Keith had shown himself to have a bit of a dirty streak when it came down to it. Lance hadn’t been keeping track of how many cards Shiro had won, but he found himself wondering if it was more than his younger brother. Either way, Keith was definitely hiding a wild side, and Lance felt a little thrill run through him at the idea of coaxing it out.

//”Alright, can we _please_ make this the last round? I’ve got an early lecture tomorrow and as much as I like hanging out with you guys, I’m actually considering going to confession after this game,” Hunk pleads.

Lance yawns widely, flopping against Hunk again. He wiggles in his seat, stretching his legs out into a more comfortable position from where they’ve been cramped underneath his weight.

//”Yeah I think I’ll join you in that buddy. Shotgun little spoon.”

//”Oh, no! No, not after last time!” Hunk babbles, sitting up quickly.

The sudden shift leaves nothing for Lance to lean on, and he yelps loudly as he keels over on his side.

//”I love you, bro, but you are _fidgety,_ ” Hunk says apologetically. “I think I nearly lost an eye last time, you flailed your arms so much. Like I don’t mind spooning you if we’re having a nap, but not the whole night. You kick!”

//”I don’t believe this!” Lance grumbles as he sits up, grumpily rubbing his head. “No love for Lance!”

<”Alright guys, let’s just play,”> Shiro interrupts, picking a fresh black card out of the long box.

Acting as mediator, the older man drops his hand, clearing his throat to read off the small card.

//”This is the prime of my life. I am young, hot, and full of _BLANK._ Please hand me your cards now.”

Shiro extends his prosthetic hand, waiting patiently as everyone deposits one white card from their selection. Once everyone has submitted an answer, Shiro shuffles through them, amusement twisting his mouth as he tries not to smile. It’s all in vain though. As Shiro reaches the last card, the dam bursts and he drops his head back to let out a loud bark of laughter.

<”Oh my god, I know exactly who pick this but it’s gotta be this one. This card wins!”>

<”Read it out, Shiro!”> Pidge says excitedly.

Shiro takes a second to compose himself, his shoulders still shaking with mirth even as he manages to take a steadying breath in preparation.

//”This is the prime of my life. I am young, hot, and full of _the biggest, blackest dick._ ”

The result is instantaneous. Pidge cackles loudly, curling up like a pill bug and rolling backwards. Lance grabs Hunk for support as he wheezes out laughter, almost slipping to the floor as Hunk giggles with his entire body. The group of friends practically fall over themselves they’re laughing so hard.

“Oh my god!” Hunk heaves. “Oh my GOD!”

<”That is by far the best one all night,”> Pidge chortles, finally pulling herself upright. <”Who’s card was that?”>

Lance is wholly prepared for Pidge to be acting like it’s not hers, he’s even prepared for Hunk to have scored a winner to round out the evening. What he’s not prepared for, however, is Keith reaching out almost daintily to pluck the black card from his brother’s metal fingers. Lance feels his jaw hit the floor. He doesn’t even care that he’s gaping. That is until Keith looks up and fucking _winks_ at him.

Lance chokes on his own spit. He coughs gutturally, almost choking a second time as Hunk thumps him on the back. That’s when a brand new peal of laughter rings through the room, and Lance’s head snaps up with enough force to almost break something. His features go completely slack as he takes in the sight of Keith with his head thrown back, bangs falling away to reveal his eyes screwed tight shut as he openly laughs.

 _God, he’s beautiful,_ Lance thinks. The thought has only registered for half a second when Lance feels his face heat up enough to fry an egg off his cheeks.

“U-uh,” he manages, before snapping his mouth shut.

Did he just _stutter_ because he thought Keith was pretty?

Alarm bells are going off in the tall boy’s head, a loud voice ringing out the word _WARNING! CUTE BOY!_ And Lance curls in on himself, turning to press into Hunk’s shoulder in an effort to hide his face.

“Wow, Lance, are you okay?” Hunk says in concern.

“M’fine!” Lance squeaks, voice several octaves higher than he’d like.

<”Okay, gang I think that’s enough excitement for one evening,”> Shiro says with a huff, mercifully ignoring Lance’s overreaction. <”We should be getting back!”>

<”Victory!”> Pidge cheers.

She dutifully starts collecting up the cards strewn across the floor, placing them meticulously back in the box, making sure that they all face the same way.

Hunk managed to pry Lance off him long enough to discard of the empty pizza boxes.

//”Oh hey, you and Keith didn’t finish your pizza. Did either of you want the last slice?”

Lance’s eyes drift down to the solitary slice of pizza left lying forlornly in the box before looking up at Keith.

“We’ll split it,” Keith says without even waiting for Lance’s answer. He reaches out to rip the slice in half, devouring the pointy bit in one bite before holding out the other piece. Lance just stares at him. Did Keith even chew? Keith just raises one eyebrow as Lance continues to stare before obviously getting bored of waiting. He steps forward and loops the fingers of one hand loosely around Lance’s wrist, pulling his arm out to place the piece of pizza gently in his palm.

The blaring sirens in Lance’s head get about a hundred decibels louder.

_THE CUTE BOY IS TOUCHING YOU!_

Once he’s sure Lance isn’t going to drop it, he pushes Lance hand gently towards his face.

“This is the sign for pizza actually,” Keith says with a gentle smile.

He lifts one hand and makes an eating motion.

“Pizza,” he affirms.

Lance nods stiffly, before taking a tiny nibble out of the slice. It seems to satisfy Keith, who turns around to pick up his jacket from the circle of pillows. Lance takes the opportunity to finish the bite, stepping away to pick up the last pizza box and shove it into the kitchen bin. He exhales shakily; willing his face to turn to its regular brown colour instead of the berry red it probably is right now.

“Oh, Lance!”

Lance freezes up at Keith’s voice, spinning round and hoping he doesn’t look too much like a deer in headlights. Keith is fishing around in his bag for something. When he finds it, he grins triumphantly, pulling it out and shoving into Lance’s hands without preamble.

“This is one of the books I used when I was getting started in ASL I thought it might be useful for you,” he says with a wide smile.

Lance looks down at the book. The cover looks like it was once brightly coloured, but the illustrations have faded with time. He runs his fingertips over the spine of the book to feel it fraying slightly, worn away with use. He doesn’t know what to say. It seems like such a personal gift. He dumbly raises his eyes to stare at Keith.

When Keith sees Lance staring at him in shock, his smile drops immediately.

“And Hunk,” Keith tacks on quickly. “For you and Hunk. In case you wanted to learn a bit more.”

Keith’s cheeks suddenly flare a bright red, and he drops his head so that his bangs obscure his eyes.

“I mean, I don’t mean to presume you wanna learn. I just thought that if you did then that might help. But if you don’t then it’s cool, you can just give it back. I don’t want you to feel like you have to—“

“That’s so cool, Keith!” Hunk says, clapping Keith on the shoulder.

The big guy peers around Lance to read the cover of the book. Lance can’t help but curl his arms around it, pulling it tightly to his body. Keith had given it to _him._

 _And Hunk,_ his mind reminds him. _He said Hunk, too._

//“This will be so helpful, thank you!”

Keith smile is back in place, his eyes glittering with joy. Almost tentatively, they flicker over to Lance, a whisper of doubt colouring his violet irises.

Lance smiles weakly, lifting his hand to sign, _< Thank you, Keith.>_

Keith gives Lance a nod, ducking his head as he makes a curving motion with his hand.

_< You’re welcome.>_

<“Thanks for the evening, guys,”> Shiro says, giving Keith a sideways glance.

Lance can’t help but feel that they’re going to be having a big conversation as soon as they leave the dorm. He just doesn’t know what about. Shiro looks like he’s just caught Keith being sneaky.

The friends all bid each other goodnight, Lance clutching Keith’s book tightly to his chest. The door swings shut after the brothers with a soft thud, leaving a strange absence in the room.

When Lance turns around, he’s met with the slightly terrifying sight of Hunk leering at him.

“So that was nice of Keith,” Hunk says in an eerily sing-songy voice.

Lance just gulps. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments give me LIFE! 
> 
> I would also like to take this opportunity to state that I have nothing against pineapple pizza. I have no opinion on it. I am Switzerland.
> 
> Light angst and mutual pining in the next chapter, kids :D


	9. Estinto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Estinto - As soft as possible
> 
> Sometimes when you wake up, you just know it's going to be a bad day.
> 
> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."
> 
> < If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING. >

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the pacing in this chapter is a little choppy but it's kinda meant to be that way. There's a lot of um self-projection in this chapter >.< mainly about anxiety stuff, but I'm glad I got to write it.
> 
> Also, if anyone wants you can use this as a bit of a guide for how to approach people experiencing panic/anxiety attacks.

Lance blinks the tiredness away from his eyes, vainly trying to fight against the threat of sleep. He hadn’t meant to stay up late, but after Keith had left and Hunk had finished his (frankly unfounded) interrogation, Lance had found himself thumbing through the ASL book long into the early hours of the morning. He’d stared at the faded pages for hours, his hands moving in a faint echo of the instructions, imagining how Keith might have done the same. The thought of the violinist’s hands skimming the paper, of tracing the black lines of the drawings with the uncertainty and nervousness only a novice could possess, had sent a warm thrum of understanding through Lance’s body.

He rolls over onto his back, the image of Keith’s lavender eyes hooded with nervousness overplaying in his head like an anxiety dream. Lance can’t imagine losing his hearing. He struggles to comprehend never listening to the clear notes of his piano again, ringing out clear as bells whilst his fingers weave them together like threads in a tapestry. Lance tries to imagine all the fear and uncertainty that comes with knowing you’ll eventually lose your hearing. He tries to imagine the frustration he would feel when he discovered there was no way to prevent it from happening, no way to save what precious little sounds he can hear. The thought alone has him gritting his teeth, and he rolls onto his back, holding the book out at arms length above him.

It’s a difficult concept to grasp, and Lance screws up his face in concentration. No wonder Keith was testy. Lance knows he’s apologised and that him and Keith are friends now, but thinking back on his actions when they first met has the tall boy grimacing in the darkness of his room.

God, he’d behaved like a jackass.

He can’t blame Keith for his irritable reaction. Heck, Lance didn’t feel like he’d have handled a situation like that quite as composedly.

He let’s out a soft groan, lowering the open book down onto his face. The pages smell musty where they’re pressed against his nose, and Lance shifts to the side, letting the book topple onto the pillow beside him. It falls open on a page that has been dog-eared, and Lance lets his tired eyes trace the line along the fold in the paper. He skims down to the pictures, eyelids drooping as he fruitlessly fights off fatigue. The dark lines of the illustrations look a little grainy from this close up, and Lance shifts back half an inch to allow his eyes room to focus. One of the pictures stands out, and after a second of blinking Lance sees why: There’s a thin red line circling the image, the ends not quite joining, as if it were scribbled hastily. But what’s more is that there is a little red heart drawn next to it. It’s small, hesitant, like a shy afterthought, and it instantly piques Lance’s curiosity.

He awkwardly tilts his head up to take in the image. It’s a pair of arms crossed at the forearms, hovering over the signer’s chest, fingers curled gently into fists. There’s a word printed in rigid font underneath it depicting the meaning, and Lance squints at it in the darkness.

“Love.”

A little thrill shoots under the tall boy’s skin as the word registers. He feels a strange cocktail of emotions twist together in his chest, interest being at the forefront.

What reason could Keith have for circling this particular sign? Lance continues to stare at the image, the invasive thoughts that only come in the witching hour prodding insistently at his brain.

Why did Keith draw a heart next to the word? Had he been planning to use it for someone? Lance’s brow furrowed as he considered the possibilities.

Had Keith dated anyone since he started losing his hearing? The pianist’s heart does a weird little quake as the idea stews in his mind.

It must be so scary, he thinks, confessing to someone when you literally cannot hear their answer. Would Keith have wanted to be with someone who didn’t understand ASL? Maybe he’d used the sign in the hopes that he wouldn’t be understood, safe in the knowledge that he had technically confessed his feelings.

Maybe he’d simply wanted to use it with Shiro?

Lance sighs, the pull of sleeping dragging his thoughts away into a box where they can be safely stored until he wakes. He fights the losing battle against his sagging lids, blue eyes taking a last foggy peek at the rest of the page.

There’s an abbreviated sign for “I love you.” Index and pointer fingers raised, middle and ring fingers curled into the palm. Lance doesn’t think he’ll remember it come morning.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s woken to the simultaneous noises of his alarm blaring and Hunk thumping on his bedroom door.

“Uuurnnghh,” Lance groans as he rolls off the bed.

There’s a soft thump on the floor as the book rolls with him, the weight causing it to peel of Lance’s face from where he’d fallen asleep with it pressed into the pillow.

Lance scrubs wearily at his eyes, the remnants of sleep dust scratching harshly at his sensitive skin. Through the blurriness of his vision, the luminescent red of his alarm clock glows back at him.

**09:38am**

Lance lets out a strangled noise just as Hunk all but breaks down his bedroom door.

“Dude!” Hunk yells in exasperation. I’ve been trying to wake you up for an hour! Who the hells locks their bedroom door at night?”

“I have an evil twin, Hunk! Of course I lock my door!” Lance yells in response.

Bolting to his feet, he whirls around the room, grabbing whatever clothes look clean and shoving them on his body.

“Lucia isn’t evil, man,” Hunk says with a frown.

He turns patiently as Lance dashes about the room, the calm in the eye of a storm.

“You’re just sore that she’s better at pranks than you.”

“She once took the laces out of all my shoes and froze them in a tub of water!” Lance shrieks through the armhole of a shirt he’s gotten stuck in. “That’s not a prank! That’s _evil!_ ”

“Whatever, dude. You’re seriously late for class. Iverson is gonna ride you so hard.”

“Pfoor choith uv worfs,” Lance garbles around the toothbrush currently jammed into his mouth.

Hunk just snickers. The broad man pauses, eyeing something on Lance’s floor as the lanky boy wrestles with a pair of socks, toothbrush still poking out of from between his lips. Stooping, Hunk swipes the ASL book off the floor, holding it sideways so that the pages flutter through their contents.

“Did you sleep with this?” Hunk queries. “I think it has a drool stain on the cover.”

“Shut up, Hunk!” Lance pouts before making a victorious noise as he gets the second sock on his foot.

“Awwww, did you cuddle it and pretend it was Keith?” Hunk teases, a wicked glint to his eye.

His thick fingers thumb the pages idly, pausing once or twice to observe a particular sign.

“There’s some good stuff in here,” he muses. “It was really nice of Keith to give it to you.”

“Yeah,” Lance hums.

He’s not really paying attention; too absorbed in stuffing his foot into what he thinks is the wrong shoe for his foot. A small chuckle breaks his focus though, and he looks up to see Hunk stifling a laugh, his hand trying and failing to stop the smile from oozing out around his fingers.

“What?” Lance says dumbly.

Hunk doesn’t reply, instead turning the book so that Lance can see the source of his amusement.

It’s the page with the love sign on it, red pen definitively circling that one very dangerous word. The tiny heart Keith had drawn, which had seemed so innocent the evening before, now stands out like a target, begging to be noticed.

“Did you circle this?” Hunk guffaws, pointing accusingly at the picture.

Lance feels his cheeks burning, a flimsy wall of defensiveness popping up in a panicked attempt to hide his embarrassment.

“NO!” he shouts.

The action results in the exact opposite of what Lance had intended. The startled expression on the pianists face acts as a catalyst, and Hunk finally lets go on the laughter he’d been trying desperately to supress. A loud boom of laughter ricochets off the walls and Hunk laughs, one hand holding his jiggling belly as he makes to wipe a tear from his eye. It’s a bit of an overreaction, Lance thinks, but then he’d probably know all about that.

“Keith circled it! It was in there when I read it yesterday,” Lance says defensively.

Hunks pauses in his chortling, his eyes widening before he breaks out in a fresh peal of laughter.

“Oh my god!” he cackles. “That is _adorable!_ ”

“I don’t have time for this!” Lance cries, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I’m late for class! AND YOU ARE A VILLAIN!”

He lunges for the book, snatching it out of Hunk’s grip which had loosened in his fit of laughter. Lance stuffs the book in his bag, bounding out of his room in a few long legged strides.

“Aw, Lance!” Hunk calls after him.

Lance doesn’t stop running, but he turns around to jog backwards as he points a condemning finger at his friend.

“I see you, villain!”

Hunk doubles over, trying to catch his breath, and Lance takes the opportunity to sprint out the front door, taking the staircase down two steps at a time.

By the time he skids through the doorway of the lecture hall, it’s 9:55am. Lance arrives in a flurry of movement, the door swinging shut behind him sending a few rogue papers flying off Professor Iverson’s desk.

The lecturer shoots Lance a filthy look, ripping a few of the sheets out of the air before they can slip onto the floor.

“And what sort of time do you call this?” he barked, face scrunched up in a permanent scowl.

“Sorry! I overslept!” Lance gushed, waving his arms wildly.

“I would expect a promising pianist such as yourself to take these classes seriously,” Iverson scolds. “That talent of your is going to waste.”

The verbal jab is designed to sting, and it does, slipping between Lance’s ribs like a painful stitch. He ducks his head, sheepishly sidling away from the desk and Iverson’s critical gaze. Lance diverts his eyes to the lecture hall, seeking out the familiar mop of black hair he’d grown so accustomed to. His gaze passes over the seats, searching for Keith amongst the fray of other students.

When he doesn’t spot to violinist, Lance frowns, sweeping his eyes over the occupied seats a few more times.

“At your _own leisure,_ Espinosa, I would suggest you take a seat,” Iverson hisses from his desk.

“Where’s Keith?” Lance blurts out, ignoring the professor’s passive aggressive instruction.

Iverson huffs, looking a little put out by the question. He straightened his tie awkwardly, tugging his jacket down at the hem to smooth out the wrinkles. The nervous action doesn’t go unnoticed by Lance, and he immediately zeroes in on the suspicious way Iverson glances down before meeting his gaze.

“Mr Kogane called in earlier to say that he would not be attending this lecture, for reasons that are his own business. If you would like to know, you can ask him about it _outside_ of lecture times.”

The tone of Iverson’s voice makes it clear that the discussion is over. Trying not to look like he’s sulking, Lance trudges to the nearest seat in the aisle.

Despite the professor telling him Keith had called in, Lance can’t help his gaze from flickering to the occupied seats, studying the backs of his peers heads as if they might suddenly turn around and pull of a mask to reveal that HAHA! They had been Keith in disguise all along!

Lance tries his best to focus for the end of the lecture, but his restless eyes kept flickering to the door, like if he stares at it for long enough Keith would come waltzing through it with Coran in tow. Maybe Shiro’s about? Lance can text him to find out what’s happened to Keith!

 _Calm down,_ Lance tells himself. _He probably just had a meeting with a talent scout or something. Of course he has, he’s insanely talented._

Lance spins his pen rapidly between his fingers, desperately needing something to occupy his fidgeting hands. A few times, Lance flicks the biro a little too hard sending it skittering down the aisle steps, forcing him out of his seat to retrieve it under the glares of his fellow students. He barely registers taking notes, his hand moving on autopilot to the steady drone of Iverson’s voice. Lance absently thanks his large family for forcing him to learn how to multitask, his body dutifully copying out words whilst his mind drifts.

Once they are dismissed, Lance hastily sweeps his books into his bag, hoisting it onto his shoulder as he made his way out of the lecture theatre with heavy footfalls. His legs automatically march him in the direction of the practice building, his eyes staring blankly as he chews his lip fretfully. The last thing on Lance’s mind right now is his composition, but he’s deliberately booked a practice room until the evening in order to give himself enough time that he might sandwich a few notes together stubbornly.

Maybe playing a bit of Nyman will help keep both his twitchy fingers and mind occupied? Or he could message one of the others? Lance doesn’t have Keith’s phone number, he realises belatedly. He’ll have to settle for questioning the older Brogane.

Lance has just pulled his phone of his pocket to text Shiro when it starts vibrating in his hand, the caller ID flashing up the words “Work: Paladin” on the small screen. Lance frowns, thumb hovering over the receive button. Why would work be calling him this early in the day? He taps the glowing green button, lifting his hand to press the device to his ear.

“Shay? What can I do for you?”

“Lance!” Shay cries down the phone, and the tall boy jolts the phone away from his ear at the unexpected volume. “You were supposed to be at work fifteen minutes ago!”

Lance pulls the phone back from his ear to glance at the clock onscreen, his frown deepening.

“What?” he asks intelligibly.

“Remember? You said you’d cover some extra shifts because you needed the money?”

The memory clips Lance in the back of the head like a bottle cap pinging against the pavement, and he slaps a hand to his forehead as he remembers, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

“Mierda! I totally forgot!”

“Normally I’d be fine to let you have the day off, you’ve been working really hard,” Shay says with an apologetic sigh. “But I could really do with the extra pair of hands today.”

“Shit, I’ll be right there!” Lance promises.

He ends the call, spinning on his heel to jog away from the practice rooms in the direction of town. As much as he doesn’t want to leave it, piano was going to have to wait until later. Lance briefly wonders if his room is going to be taken when he returns, but he takes comfort in knowing that it’s been booked until tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

Lance can’t stop glancing at the clock. His shift is only four hours, but it feels like every time he glances at the dial, the hands have barely moved.

“A watched kettle never boils, Lance,” Shay calls to him over the steam wand as she foams latte milk.

“Huh?”

Lance tears his eyes away from the time to stare at his manager. Shay just quirks an eyebrow at him as she swirls the milk around the jug, microfoam rising to the surface of the white liquid.

“You’ve been staring at the clock since you got here. Not to mention you keep doing weird things with your hands.”

Lance peeked anxiously down at his hands, absorbing their intertwining fingers with some small surprise. This isn’t the first time his hands have been moving of their own accord, and it sets Lance weirdly on edge. What if he’s playing the piano and one of his fingers decides to glue itself to another? What if it’s in front of a scout? Lance doesn’t need this right now, not with all the stress of trying to recompose his piece for the talent showcase.

He’s tired. Between working extra shifts and attending ASL classes on top of class and piano practice, he’s barely had time to relax. The fast approaching date of the showcase looms over his head, creeping ever closer the way ivy winds its way around a building. Lance feels like its winding its way around his throat.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking away. “Been kinda busy.”

Lance grabs a docket and starts taking stock of the small fridges beneath the counter, largely as an excuse to occupy his misbehaving hands.

He can feel Shay frowning at him from the coffee machine.

“What’s going on with you?” she asks. “You’ve been acting really weirdly.”

Lance plasters on his best fake smile, giving his shoulders a little shrug for good measure as he scribbles down the stock count.

“What do you mean?” he asks innocently? “Maybe you’ve just been paying more attention to me recently? Got a crush?”

Shay doesn’t rise to the bait, her mouth twisting into a displeased line instead.

“I’m serious, Lance,” she murmurs. “You’ve been stressing massively about this composition, plus you’ve been working here so much I’m worried it’s getting to you a bit.”

Shay’s voice is coated in a veneer of pure friendly concern, and Lance bites the inside of his cheek to focus his thoughts. Straightening up, he turns all of his attention on the tall girl in front of him, fixing her with a firm and grateful stare.

“Thank you, Shay,” Lance says earnestly. “But I’m really fine.”

Shay remains looking unconvinced, but she gives Lance an understanding nod before turning back to the rosetta she’s currently swirling into the coffee cup.

Lance flaps the docket between his fingers, enjoying the steady slap slap against his skin. He’s felt off all morning, and as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s knows it’s because of Keith’s absence. Lance struggles to remember when exactly the other boy had become such a constant in his life.

 _It’s not about Keith,_ a voice in the back of his head says. _It’s coming and you know it._

Lance winces at his own self-awareness, not wanting to believe the soft crooning on the inside of his skull.

It’s accurate, though. Lance feels as if someone’s plugged him into a dying car battery: There’s a steady thrum of energy coursing under his skin – not enough to spark, but enough that he feels jittery, restlessness sitting snuggly in the seams between his nerves. It’s threatening to surge, and Lance feels powerless to stop it.

The ring of the bell that hangs over the café door pulls Lance out of his spiralling thoughts, and his eyes snap up to see Shiro stepping in out of the cold, his hair a little windswept and falling into his eyes.

“Shiro!” Lance calls, a little spike of hope injecting itself amongst the nervous energy.

“Hi Lance,” Shiro greets him with a smile. “I didn’t realise you were working today.

“And every other day this week,” Shay says with a short bark of laughter.

Shiro smiles at her in greeting, though a miniscule crease forms between his eyebrows as he regards the tall boy.

“Every day this week? How come you’re working so much?”

“Gotta keep the paper flowing,” Lance responds with a noncommittal shrug.

Shiro doesn’t say anything, his frown only deepening as Lance’s excuse falls flat. The brunette takes the silence as an opportunity, and his next words practically falls out of his mouth.

“Do you know where Keith was this morning?”

Shiro’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, disappearing into the white forelock that hangs over his forehead.

Lance rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly a little abashed about his sudden outburst.

“I was just wondering if he needed the notes or anything.”

It’s a flimsy cover up, and Lance is betting that Shiro can see right through him. Nevertheless, the older boy doesn’t comment on Lance’s sudden interest in his brother.

“Oh Keith? He was… ah- Keith had a um, a meeting this morning.”

Lance blinks owlishly at his friend, feeling thoroughly unsatisfied with the answer Shiro has offered.

“Like with a talent scout or something?” he pries.

Shiro smiles wanly.

“Or something.”

Lance squints at his friend suspiciously, eyeing Shiro’s stiff posture up and down. He’s making a valiant attempt at acting as if everything’s fine, but Lance doesn’t miss the way Shiro keeps glancing away from his eyes, or the way the fingers of his prosthetic hand keep pinching together like a nervous tick.

“What are you hiding?” Lance asks.

Shiro sighs, his head lolling onto his chest as he realises he’s been found out.

“Look, Lance,” he starts, reaching up to brush his bangs back. “It’s Keith’s business. If you want to know, I’d really suggest asking him yourself.”

Lance just continues to peer questioningly at the older boy, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You said you had some notes from this morning’s lecture, right? Why don’t you give Keith a copy and you can ask him them.”

Lance gives Shiro a final once over before he abates, resting his hands on the coffee machine in preparation.

“Soy hazelnut latte?”

“Thanks, buddy,” Shiro says with a grateful smile.

Once Shiro collects his drink, he leaves the café with a good natures wave, the door letting out a soft jingle as it closes after him. Lance lets out a sigh, leaning back on the counter. The afternoon rush has passed, and there’s not a huge amount to do aside from some elementary cleaning jobs.

Shiro’s explanation of Keith’s absence hadn’t exactly left Lance feeling reassured, but it had eased some of the tension that lay coiled around his bones. If Keith’s older brother wasn’t worried about him missing a lesson, then there was no reason for Lance to worry either, right?

The lanky boy lets out a bone-weary sigh, letting his head loll back on his shoulders to stare at the ceiling. From this distance, Lance can make out a small series of cracks in the plaster, tracing their way above the café floor like spidery fingers. Lance imagines them as pathways, tracking the movement of the café customers’ footsteps like an etch-a-sketch.

“See this!” Shay’s voice cuts through the air.

Lance pulls his head forward, levelling her with a confused look.

“All this,” Shay continues, gesturing to where Lance is draping himself against the work surface. “Where’s all your bounce gone?”

Lance quirks a half-smile, electing not to try and lie to her. Shay would most likely see through him, and anyway, he doesn’t have the energy to try and fake another good mood.

“I’m just a bit stressed with stuff,” he explains. It’s the truth too. Lance doesn’t know why today is so crappy, but if he had to take a guess he’d say it’s the small mountain of work he’s made for himself.

“Is this about Keith?” Shay pipes up.

Lance balks at her.

“Why would this be about Keith?”

“I don’t know, I just figured since you were learning ASL for him and you seem really bummed out that he wasn’t at the lecture today.”

“I’m not learning ASL _for him,_ ” Lance groans.

“Whom else are you learning it for?” Shay asks coyly.

Lance just gives her a look. He really doesn’t need to have this discussion, not today. Not with the way he’s feeling. It’s frustrating him more that he can’t put a name to the feeling, and he flaps his hands uselessly at his sides.

“I’m just… I’m just having a bad day, okay?” he offers, hoping Shay will hear the pleading in his tone and drop the subject.

Her eyes latch on to the movement, understanding flitting across her face before her expression morphs into one of sympathy.

“Yeah okay. I hope you feel a bit better tomorrow.”

Lance gives her a grateful smile, a sliver of unease syphoning itself off his person. Before he can fully relax, however, Lance’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket for the second time that day. He barely glances at the name “Princess” before he he hits the receive button.

“Allura?”

“Lance? Where are you?”

Lance closes his eyes at the sense of déjà vu that washes over him, lifting one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“What did I forget this time?”

“ASL classes? In ten minutes?”

Lance’s head snaps to the clock hanging on the wall so fast, he all nearly gives himself whiplash. His mouth drops open when he sees the time.

“What the actual fuck?” he says aloud, ignoring a disapproving glance from Shay. “Since when are our classes in the afternoon?”

“Umm, on this same day every week? You signed up for the intensive course, did you forget that we attend two classes a week?”

Lance growls, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“Go,” Shay interrupts, and Lance spins to look at her with wide eyes.

“It’s okay, it’s quiet this afternoon and you already helped out with the rush.”

Lance gives his managed a one-armed hug, pulling away as she waves him absentmindedly towards the exit.

“I’ll be there ASAP, Princess,” Lance assures Allura.

“Don’t call me that.”  
“Sure thing, Princess.”

Lance hangs up the call with a grin. He’s got one foot out the Paladin Café before he’s even get half his jacket on.

 

* * *

 

 

When Lance arrives at the building, Allura is already stood waiting outside. She turns to face him as he approaches, footsteps slapping loudly against the pavement as he sprints towards her.

“Lance! Oh good, you’re here!” Allura cries.

Lance skids to a halt in front of her before doubling over, trying to wheeze out a greeting between gasping breaths. He barely gets a syllable out when Allura grabs his wrist, powerfully towing him through the front doors. Lance just lets her, the force of Allura’s stride carrying him much further than he would have managed on his own. He stumbles a little at the stairs, the toes of his shoes catching the lip of a few steps as he struggles to lift his knees high enough to match Allura’s speed. The white-hared girl slows down a little at that, her vicelike grip around Lance’s wrist slackening to accommodate the little jerks of movement. She practically wheels him through the door just as the other students sit down in their seats.

“Sorry we’re late!” Allura chirps brightly.

She fixes the room with a dazzling smile, effectively melting any gripes surrounding their tardiness.

“Please, have a seat,” Nyma says.

She gestures to a pair of empty chairs to her side, and Lance and Allura slip into them quietly.

Nyma begins this lesson with a quick review of what they’d been learning over the past couple of weeks. Lance methodically mimics the motions she makes with her hands, silently mouthing the words along with the action so that he may remember them better. He’s definitely feeling a lot more confident in his ability to converse, and the lessons along with the resources he’s looked up online have helped to expand Lance’s ASL vocabulary.

But today something’s not right.

It feels like a thick layer of fog has descended on Lance’s brain, obscuring his train of thought and inhibiting his ability to focus. The words Nyma is teaching them aren’t sinking in. Instead, they sit on top of Lance’s brain like lilies on a pond, small bone-dry patches amidst the rippling waves of his mind.

Lance’s eyes periodically wander over to the clock on the wall, watching the hands move as if they’re a countdown to some horrible inevitability.

“Lance, are you listening?”

Lance tears his gaze away from the wall, shooting Nyma a grin that’s caught awkwardly somewhere between cavalier and bashful.

“A girl like you has nothing but my undivided attention,” he lies smoothly.

“Ignore him,” Allura adds.

They’re barely an hour into the lesson when Lance’s hands start to shake. What should have been a fairly simple sign crumbles into something incomprehensible. Lance’s partner frowns in confusion, eyes flitting back and forth between Lance’s stressed face and his botched hand sign.

“S-sorry,” he mutters, clasping his hands tightly together.

 _C’mon, get it together,_ he thinks. It’s more of a plea than a command, and Lance feels like his resolve is flaking away like old paint.

Allura notices not half a minute later, politely excusing herself to her partner before gliding over to him.

“Lance,” she murmurs, crouching down beside him.

Allura makes sure not to touch him, Lance realises, a tingle of appreciation flickering in the back of his mind and he fights to steady his quavering fingers.

“Lance,” Allura says again, a little clearer. “Are you having a bad day?”

Lance nods solemnly, trying to let the familiarity of his friend’s voice soothe him.

“Do you want to leave the lesson?”

Lance shakes his head vigorously from side to side, the short strands of his hair making a quiet swooshing noise as they brush his ears.

Lance vaguely acknowledges the irony of his situation – his tongue has shut itself in a steel crate in the back of his throat, cutting off any and all speech that may help him better explain how he’s feeling. And yet, the slowly beginning seizing of his muscles prevent him from communicating in sign language.

If he could, Lance would laugh at how genuinely fucking backwards that was.

Allura frowns, the muscles around her eyes contracting in a way that didn’t suit her. She takes a minute to think before trying a different tact.

“Do you feel like you _need_ to leave the lesson?”

Lance pauses, letting the question process. It is difficult, everything feels weirdly far away, like it’s happening in the next room and Lance has his ear pressed to the wall. His mind keeps drifting to the practice room he’s booked back on campus. Maybe Keith is there? God, Lance needs to play his piano. His fingers are leaping over each other like a nest of excitable rabbits, and his jaw has long since locked up, forcing his molars to grind together so hard he could hear it reverberate through his entire skull.

“I’ll explain to Nyma that you’re leaving. I’ll be very discreet,” Allura promises.

Lance just shuts his eyes, hoping that relinquishing one source of stimuli might stop his brain from driving itself into data overload. It barely helps, instead the darkness allowing Lance’s imagination to vividly depict his anxieties coming to fruition.

“I’m coming with you back to campus,” Allura states.

Lance shakes his head so wildly he can hear the blood rush in his ears.

No. nOnonono that isn’t what he needs. He doesn’t need a chaperone; he really wants to be alone right now.

“I can’t let you go back on your own like this,” Allura says gently.

Lance keeps on shaking his head, left right left right left right. It’s starting to hurt, a steady ache building up in his temples, but it gives him something to grasp onto and so he doesn’t stop. Left right left right left right.

“Okay,” Allura concedes. “But I’m calling Hunk to let him know. He’ll be there when you get back to the dorm, okay?”

Lance nods his understanding, reaching out with a trembling hand to scoop his bag off the floor. He can feel the eyes of the room on him as he scuttles out the door, head bowed decisively to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. The walking is good, yes. The walking helps. The minor burn that escalates in his muscles from his long strides help to expel some of the anxious energy that threatens to overwhelm him.

He doesn’t remember making his way back onto campus, the journey a haze of unrefined colours and images. It doesn’t matter; he’s almost at the practice rooms. Just a little bit further and he can drown this feeling in his music, pushing it all the way out of heart and down his arms to squeeze out of his fingertips like a piping bag.

_I’ve booked the room until close, I’ve booked the room until close, I’ve booked the room until close…_

Lance repeats the fact like a prayer, an unwavering nugget of knowledge that holds like an anchor in the storm of his anxiety.

He turns left down the familiar corridor, eyes locking onto the door at the far end. The practice room. _His_ practice room.

Lance is within ten steps when he hears it: The unmistakable sound of a violin.

He freezes, feet rooted to the spot, breath catching in his throat.

The violin plays on, thin reedy notes melding into strong robust draws of the bow, bending but never breaking, like bamboo. The sound is elegant, effortless, dancing around the room like a siren. Lance yearns to touch it, to stretch out his fingers and know what it would feel like. He can’t even find it within himself to be envious of the violinist’s obvious talent, not when they thread the notes together like spun gold.

It’s… Beautiful. And familiar.

Lance recognises that music. It’s the very music that’s been evading him for weeks, slipping through his fingers like water every time he thinks he’s grasped it.

Carefully, like a mouse approaching a trap, the tall boy inches forward, ensnared by the temptation to catch a glimpse of the artist so capable of spinning such music. He leans to the side, weight shifting slightly off centre to peer into the room.

Of course Lance recognises him. Who else would be playing in Lance’s practice room? Who else but Keith Kogane would take his room and use it to paint a rich portrait through a neat collection of notes? _Lance’s_ notes.

Keith’s hair is swept out of his face, held away from his eyes by a thin hairband so it falls down his neck. His eyes are lidded, flicking between his nimble fingers and something across the room. The boy’s wiry body sways a little with each draw of the bow across the strings, pulling the melody out of the instrument like a snake charmer, coaxing and brilliant.

Lance is almost content just to watch him, the melody calming the demanding twitch in his muscles. He never thought he’d find something that soothed him the way playing the piano did, but Keith’s violin playing felt liquid colour was pouring through Lance’s veins, cooling him from the inside out.

Keith raises the bow, the note from his instrument hanging in the air as his eyes flicked to something across the room. Lance doesn’t even have time to question it before he understands why.

The clean-cut notes of a piano strike up, sliding in beside the violin choppily, overwhelming, and overcompensating. Keith can’t hear it, but Lance can, and anxiety mixed with anger and something like hurt vibrated inside his chest like a paint mixer. Hearing his piece butchered by someone so lacking in technique sparks his fury like a match. Without a second thought, he bashes through the practice room door, teeth bared and fists balled.

Keith stops playing immediately, his eyes widening in shock. Lance doesn’t offer him a word of acknowledgement; instead turning his head to see which pianist Keith deems so worthy of replacing him. Shiro’s words come floating back to Lance in a muddy wash of emotion.

_You draw a lot of attention to yourself, Lance. Keith’s pretty private._

Lance feels like he’s swallowed a bowling ball.

A student from one of Lance’s classes, Rolo, sits at the piano, his face the epitome of disinterest. Watching Lance lazily, he flexes his fingers to lace the behind his head, eyeing the tan boy up and down.

“Dude, what do you want?”

“This is my room,” Lance growls. “I booked it.”

“Lance-“ Keith starts.

“And that’s _my_ music. I wrote it,” Lance spits, turning to Keith.

He doesn’t care that the shorter boy might not be able to understand. Lance doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand why Keith would have stolen his music, kept it from him when he was so obviously struggling with it. He doesn’t understand why Keith became friends with him and withheld the very composition he knew Lance had been searching for.

 _He’s using you,_ a vicious voice in the back of Lance’s head whispers.

Lance wants to shake it from his cerebral, but it sticks to him, sinking its claws into mind, pumping insecurities into his thoughts and feeding of his escalating anxiety.

“The room’s booked in the name of Leandro Espinosa,” Rolo drawls. “He hasn’t shown up so the receptionist said we could use the room.”

“That’s _me!_ ” Lance shouts. “ _I’m_ Leandro, and I specifically booked this room for the entire day.”

“You’re Leandro?” Rolo questions, quirking one eyebrow sceptically.

Lance hisses, throwing his bag off his shoulder and stuffing his hand in the top to dig around for his wallet. Yanking it out a tad too forcefully, he flips it open to pull out his student ID before jamming it into Rolo’s smug face.

The guy releases one hand from the back of his head to grab the ID before Lance drops it, eyes raking over the name next to the stock photo. He lets out a short bark of laughter as he reads the long string of letters printed across the cheap plastic.

“This is… Your practice room?” Keith asks unsurely.

Lance doesn’t know how much Keith managed to pick up from reading Rolo’s lips. He doesn’t care. All he knows is that a hot prickling sensation is clawing at the inside of his chest like a caged animal, feral as it bites his heart.

The sudden urge to leave the room is overwhelming. It floods all of Lance’s senses at once, cloying and thick as it ignites his flight reflex. He has to get out of there NOW. Lance jerks, causing Keith to flinch back from where he’s been creeping closer to a safer distance. He eyes Lance like he’s a wild animal, like he might claw at him should he get to near. Lance’s arm snakes out, snatching the music right off Keith’s stand before he bolts out the door.

He doesn’t know where he’s going; it doesn’t matter as long as it’s out of that practice room. _Keith’s_ practice room.

Belatedly, Lance realises he’s left he student ID with Rolo, but the thought falls to the wayside as he clutches the precious piece of paper to his chest. He can get another ID, but his music, _his composition,_ is here, it’s safe; it’s in his hands.

Lance throws open a door, only half registering it to be the cupboard for the orchestra chairs before he steps inside. He spins, letting his back hit the cool stone of the wall as his legs finally give out and he slides shakily to the floor.

He knew this was going to happen. It’s felt like an axe hanging over his head all day, and now here it was in full blown panicked form.

Lance draws his knees up to his chest, focusing on trying to take deep steady breaths. They come out like choked off puffs, a train chugging full steam ahead, all the way to Anxiety Central. He wraps his arms around his long legs, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

He’s not sure how long he sits there, quivering like a leaf in the wind, fingers slapping his knees repeatedly for some sort of sensation to distract his mind from curling itself into destructive knots. Lance thinks about reaching for his stim toy, but realises with a sharp pang that he’d forgotten to pack it in his haste.

He’s vaguely aware of the cupboard door being opened, a crack of light slicing through his frame in its quest to scale the wall.

“Lance?”

It’s Keith’s voice, tentative and quiet. Lance screws his eyes shut. Maybe if he wishes hard enough, Keith will just go away.

“Shiro texted me. He said Allura called Hunk, but the big guy got worried when you didn’t show up at your dorm.”

Lance grits his teeth.

_Go away go away go away go away go aw-_

“Leandro Alejandro Núñez Cuesta Espinosa.”

The sound of Lance’s full name sends a tremor of surprise through the tall boy’s body, even if Keith botches the pronunciation a bit, and he blinks his eyes open a fraction to see the other boy staring down at him.

“I didn’t realise that was your name, that’s why I didn’t return the music right away,” Keith continues. “I’m sorry.”

Lance buries his face in his knees, slapping his legs forcefully to try and drown out Keith’s voice. He doesn’t need this right now; he doesn’t need Keith to see him like this.

“I don’t-Lance, I don’t know what to do. How can I help?” Keith asks, voice cracking a bit with concern.

He reaches out to lay a hand on Lance’s arm in what should have been a reassuring gesture.

It is a mistake.

Lance let’s out a pained cry, jerking violently away from the touch as he scrambles against the wall. He grips his head, blunt fingernails digging into the sensitive flesh of his scalp as Lance tries to fold himself into the smallest ball imaginable, to occupy the least amount of space. Keith’s hand hovers in the air, a bird navigating an uncertain wind.

“Okay! Okay!” Keith hushes at the extreme reaction. “I’m not going to touch you, I promise. I’m just going to sit right here, okay?”

Lance can’t even move his head to nod, instead listening closely to the ruffle of clothing as Keith sinks down next to him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keith asks.

There’s a strange pain to his tone, warping his voice into something unintentionally melancholy. Lance sort of understands: If he opens up with his face hidden like this, there’s not a lot Keith can do to comfort him.

And once again, Lance is putting Keith in a difficult position. He hates himself for acting this way, for being so much of a burden on the people surrounding him. Lance musters all the little strength he has to shake his head almost imperceptibly. Keith hums in acknowledgement, letting the confined space fall quiet again.

They sit there for a little while; Lance quaking as he tries to gets a handle on his erratic breathing, Keith a strong silent presence beside him.

“I was fifteen when the doctor diagnosed me with hearing fading,” Keith says suddenly, breaking the silence.

Lance bites his lips, trapping the short gasps inside him so that he can hear what the other boy is saying.

“I remember I used to listen to music through these huge headphones that covered my entire ear. Shiro said I looked like Mickey Mouse’s dog. Big floppy ears.”

Keith pauses for a second to take in a ragged breath, and Lance hears him run a hand through his hair at the back of his neck.

“I remember… I remember putting them on one day and everything just sounded so fuzzy. Like someone had put cotton wool in my ears. I told my parents about it but they just said I was listening to my music too loud. Shiro was a bit concerned but he didn’t really believe me either. It was only when I walked into the street one day and almost got hit by a car that they took me took the doctor.

“I remember Shiro asking me why’d I’d walked out into the road. I can still see the look on his face when he practically shouted “Didn’t you hear the car?” That was when the doctor told them I was losing my hearing.”

Lance’s breathing has slowed a little as he listens, his fingers uncurling from where they’ve been fisted into his hair.

“I was so _angry_.”

Keith’s voice sounds thick with emotion, his throat tight, distorting his voice.

“I loved the violin. And I was _good_ at it. And it just felt like everything I’d worked towards was being taken away from me for no reason.”

Keith pauses in his story, and Lance takes the lull in his words as an opportunity to peek up at the other boy. He’s frowning hard into his fingers as the twine the hairband around them in a figure of eight. The hair that had been held back now fell into his face, obscuring his eyes, purple and glassy with memories. Lance wanted to help, but he didn’t know how. How do you comfort someone about something like that? The tall boy just did the only thing he knew how – he scooted a little closer to Keith, close enough that their upper arms brushed. If Keith minded, he didn’t say anything, in stead just leaning almost unnoticeably into the touch.

“But I think most of all… I was just really scared.”

Lance watches as Keith dips his head, a muscle in his jaw leaping as he grits his teeth. The lump of his Adam’s apple bobs, and Lance’s eyes trace the movement over Keith’s neck down towards his collarbones.

“I didn’t know what was going to happen,” Keith continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. “But Shiro started learning ASL as soon as he found out. He’s the one that encourage me to continue with violin. I owe him a lot.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t have the words in his vocabulary to tell Keith how sorry he is for making him feel like he wasn’t a part of their friendship group. How he’s sorry for the way he behaved when they first met. He tries to pour all his sentiment into action, slowly tilted his head to rest it hesitantly atop Keith’s shoulder. With a shuddering sigh, Keith leans his head atop Lance’s in a mirror of the gesture, his fingers winding around the band stilling.

“I’m sorry I took your music,” Keith murmurs. “I didn’t know it was yours. I thought it might be when I read what you were trying to compose the other day. I should have said something then.”

Lance hums I acknowledgement, letting his eyes drift shut.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” Keith whispers.

Lance can feel the tension oozing out of his muscles like oil, slinking away from him and out under the crack beneath the door. Keith’s shoulder feels strong and steady under his cheek, a reassuring warmth that he clings to. In an uncharacteristically shy gesture, Lance reaches out to brush his fingers over the band in Keith’s hand. He means to take the thin piece of string from the other boy, a souvenir to remember his words, but Keith’s fingers latch onto his in an instant. Lance sighs as the other boy laces their hands together, their digits folding over one another like they were custom built to fit. With one last shaky breath, Lance’s muscles finally relax and he slumps against Keith’s side, the longer strands of dark hair tickling over his cheekbones. Keith turns his head minutely, trying to snatch a glimpse of the taller boy. Lance just buries his face in Keith’s neck.

He feels raw, exposed, vulnerable in a way he’s still not sure he’s comfortable with. But Keith is here, and Keith is opening up to him, doing something he does not have to do just to try and make Lance feel a little better.

With the absence of nervous energy wiring through his mainframe like a livewire, Lance feels fatigue sink into his bones, and he lets out one last little huff as he speaks his next words.

“Thank you, Keith.”

Keith just smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo okay! So the secret is out! Keith had Lance's music all along.
> 
> On a side note, I fully support [THIS POST](http://daddyroboarm.tumblr.com/tagged/Leandro-Alejandro-N%C3%BA%C3%B1ez-Cuesta-Espinosa)  
> about Lance's name being an acronym.  
> Also, Lance has a twin sister so... yeah. Explains a lot.
> 
> Come scream at me!  
> [My Tumblr](http://zizzani.tumblr.com/)  
> 


	10. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft moments in the wake of vulnerability.
> 
> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."
> 
> < If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING. >

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so short and so late I am very sorry but I have the next chapter planned and honestly I'm just extremely tired and I wanted to update. The next chapter will be longer!!

Once Lance had calmed down, Keith had walked him all the way back to his dorm. The crumpled sheets of music held tightly in Lance’s fist rustled slightly as the wind brushed through them, like it was trying to peek at the melody between the folds. Lance had just curled his fingers tighter around them. Keith’s arm had remained a gentle presence wrapped loosely around his back, a warm halo of reassurance letting Lance know that he wasn’t alone as he ducked his head to avoid the fleeting glances of fellow students.

As they approach the dorm building, a loud bang alerts the two boys, and Lance lifts his head a little to see Hunk barrelling out of the front entrance, doors swinging wildly behind him.

“Lance!” Hunk cries, his voice booming across the open space.

He collides with the lanky boy with the force of a small truck; scooping Lance up into his arms strongly enough to lift him off the floor so that his legs dangled limply like a rag doll.

“Allura called me to say you were coming back but you didn’t show up and I got scared and you weren’t answering your phone and-“

Hunk’s next words are muffled as he buried his face in Lance’s chest. The Cuban lets out a little huff of dry laughter, patting his friend consolingly on the head.

“Sorry, buddy, I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m okay.”

Hunk peeks up to squint his eyes at Lance in scrutiny, searching his sharp features for any sign of a wobbling resolve. Lance just gives him a watery smile, eyelids drooping with emotional fatigue.

“Okay,” Hunk concedes after a moment. “But I’m making you tahini cookies just to make sure.”

Lance feels a little bubble of warmth slip through his veins at his friends caring expression, the firmness of his thick arms around Lance’s slim torso feeling like an anchor for him to hold onto in the calming storm of his anxiety.

Hunk places Lance gently down onto the pavement, keeping one broad hand resting gently against his friend’s back.

“Thank you for bringing him back in one piece, Keith,” Hunk sighs.

He turns to address the violinist, but blinks rapidly at the vacant space next to Lance.

“Where did he-“

Lance spins around, eyes sharp as they search for Keith in the surrounding vicinity. A strange sense of panic simmers under his skin as the edges of his frayed emotions catch like embers in a fire. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to zero in on the back of Keith’s head, dark locks bouncing in time with his steps, stained red with the fading light and the reflection of his jacket.

“Keith!” Lance shouts, and immediately curses himself.

Stepping out of Hunk’s gentle embrace, Lance uses his long legs to jog over to Keith’s retreating form, the nervous energy from earlier giving his strides added length. He rounds Keith, giving him a wide enough berth before stepping into his eye line.

“Where are you going?” Lance asks curiously.

And nervously, he realises. Whether it was intended or not, Keith has seen him in a distinctly vulnerable state, and it makes Lance feel as if the two of them now share something. A deeper bond, of sorts: Something, Lance can’t quite name. It feels fragile and intangible all at once, and Lance is worried that he’ll break it.

“Oh, I was just…” Keith trails off, reaching up awkwardly to rub the back of his neck.

His eyes are an indigo labyrinth, high walls patterning the blue speckled in his irises. Lance feels lost in them, hoping he can find a thread to lead his way out.

He shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, fighting the grating urge to drop his gaze to his feet and study the cracks between the bricks under his shoes.

<”Thank you,”> Lance says. “For helping me.”

Keith doesn’t offer any words of welcome. His expression is unreadable as he gazes at the taller boy, dark tresses of his fringe fluttering over his brow.

“I’m really sorry I took your music,” Keith says eventually.

Lance opens his mouth to assure him that it’s fine, but Keith looks away and speaks quickly, as if he’s worried the words will die in his throat before he can breath life into them.

“I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Even if it wasn’t yours, I should have handed it in at the reception desk. I just- when I read it, I could hear it so _clearly_ in my head and I… I really liked it.”

Lance swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly devoid of all moisture. The papers still balled in his fist suddenly feel rough and dry against his skin, and he loosens his grip a little to try and diminish the sensation. Keith lifts his head to look Lance firmly in the eye, his stare unwavering even as his lip trembles.

“It’s a really good piece, Lance. I’m glad I got to play it.”

Lance doesn’t know what to say. He lifts his hand to sign ‘thank you’, but it stops halfway to his face, quivering slightly in the space between them as he blinks unfocused at Keith. Tentatively, the violinist reaches out, snaring Lance’s fingers with the tips of his. He offers a barely there squeeze, the barest hint of a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. His touch is a whisper in a language Lance doesn’t understand, and he struggles to understand the action. Even so, the tips of Keith’s fingers feel calloused from years of coaxing soft melodies out of taught strings, and the leathery feeling gives Lance something to catch. He squeezes Keith’s hand in return, letting the sensation soothe the ragged edges of his mind, a balm for his aching emotions.

“See you tomorrow, Keith,” Lance says softly.

Keith nods, his bangs falling into his eyes. Not enough to cover his smile though.

“See you tomorrow, Lance.”

Lance allows their hands to drop, Keith’s fingers slipping out of his own as the other boy walks past him. He feels their absence immediately, cool air flooding his warmed skin where Keith had touched him. As Keith passes him, Lance catches a flash of teeth, a grin the other boy clearly thought he’d hidden.

He watches Keith walk away for a minute, a foreign emotion singing to the thoughts that lie in the very back corners of his mind.

“Lance!” Hunk shouts from where he stands a couple of yards away. “Cookies?”

“Coming, bud!” Lance calls back.

He watches for a few more seconds as Keith stuffs his hands into his pockets, shoulders inching their way towards his ears before Lance turns and makes his way back to Hunk.

 

The pillow feels cool against the side of his face as Lance finally slides into bed. He’s forgotten how much anxiety attacks take out of him. The muscles of Lance’s body feel like they’ve been lined with lead, weaving around his bones and weighing him down into an exhausting corporeal state when he’d really rather just drift away. His fingers brush the precious few pages of composition that lie on the floor next to his bed. Lance imagines the notes coming to life under his touch, igniting in an array of technicolour to serenade each other. That’s how he wrote them after all; to twine in tandem, compliment each other, to echo and fade, push and pull. He imagines their bright hues seeping up his fingertips, colouring his veins with glowing pastels that trace a path straight to his heart.

It’s in this dream-like state, caught somewhere between sleep and wake that Lance is hyper aware of how the papers’ texture changes microscopically. He blinks his eyes open, brushing his hand back a few millimetres to feel the paper again. Yes, there was definitely something different about it; a sudden tackiness that felt strangely porous in comparison to the dry scratch of the white sheets.

With no small amount of strain, Lance pulls himself upright, leaning over the edge of his mattress to pick the pages off his bedroom floor.

Squinting in the darkness, he can just about make out a few notes that hover over the rest in what he thinks is blue biro. The scrawling is a far cry from his own looping script, jagged and hurried, as if the person who’d written them in had been worried that they might forget them should they not be written down fast enough.

_Keith._

Lance peers closer at the notes, the tip of his pointy nose hovering precariously close to the page as he squints through the dim light of the room. It takes him a full minute to realise that the melody is written for violin. It takes him thirty seconds to play the melody through his head, threading it through his own and enjoying the way it stitches the very fabric of the instruments into something new and exciting. It takes all of ten seconds for Lance to scramble blindly for his phone in the dark. He finally finds it in the pocket of his jeans, discarded in the corner where he’d thrown them of in pure desperation to get to bed. He winces when he presses the home button, the fluorescent light of the screen blinding him temporarily. He screws up his face through the glare, flicking through his contacts with all the urgency of a man on the precipice.

When he gets to Shiro’s number, he quickly taps out a message, not even pausing to think before he hits send.

 

 **Lance:** Do you have Keith’s number???

 

Lance stares at the words hovering on the screen, suspended in a small bubble in the conversation window. He suddenly realises that without context, the question is rather redundant. Of course Shiro would have his own brother’s number. Lance deliberates for a few moments, weighing up the implications of an explanation. He decides that Shiro of all people won’t judge him, and so he quickly types a following message.

 

 **Lance:** It’s about my composition – He found it and I just wanted to ask him something.

 

It’s a full minute before the three innocent little dots appear on his screen, bouncing optimistically up and down as Shiro types out a response. Lance can’t help but hold his breath, apprehension prickling the back of his neck.

 **Shiro Loves You Baby:** Sure. Figured you’d ask for it sooner or later.

 

Lance frowns at the message. Sure, it looks fairly innocent, but knowing Shiro there’s a deeper meaning behind his words, one that Lance doesn’t have the energy to decipher right now. And so instead he just waits until the little dots appear again, Keith’s number popping up on screen, illuminating in the darkness of Lance’s bedroom. Once he adds the number to his contacts, Lance hesitates, his thumbs hovering over the keypad.

What was he going to say? Hey, I found your notes on my music, wanna try them out? He takes a deep steadying breath, letting his eyelids slide shut to minimise the outside stimuli and allow him to focus.

“Start by introducing yourself, moron,” he mutters under his breath.

When Lance opens his eyes, he sucks in a sharp breath – On the screen is Keith’s name, wide and bold as the phone rings on the other end. Lance’s thumb hits the end call button so fast it almost cracks his screen, and he bites his lip to stop himself from cursing loudly.

A second passes before his phone buzzes, and Lance peeks between his fingers to see whatever offended message Keith has sent.

 

 **Keith:** Who is this?

 

Lance lets out a shuddering sigh, his hands shaking as his grips his phone with white knuckles. Without giving himself time to chicken out, he rapidly types out a response and hits send.

 

 **Lance:** hi it’s lance

 

Not ten seconds after he hits send, the dots bounce up on screen again.

 

 **Keith:** Did you just… call me?

 

A giddy hiccup of laughter escapes Lance’s lips at the response. Even through the plain text he can hear Keith’s deadpan incredulity. _I’m deaf, you idiot!_

 

 **Lance:** ye sorry i hit call by accident

 **Keith:** No worries.

 

Lance chews his lip, fingers poised over the keypad as he deliberates his next few words. He types them in a hurry, cautious of his very present capacity to chicken out.

 

 **Lance:** I found your notes on my music.

 

He reads the text over again as soon as it disappears from the type bar, bubbling it off into conversation for Keith to see. Was that too aggressive? Should he have started out more friendly? “Hey, I liked your notes on my music!” Would that have been too much? Lance screws up his eyes to try and combat the spin cycle of anxious voices shouting in his head.

“Don’t overthink it,” he mutters to himself.

He’s sure he sounds like a crazy person, but it’s dark and he’s alone and there’s no one to judge him talking to himself, so Lance pushes the idle thought to the side. His phone vibrates in his hand, the screen lighting up the room with it’s dull blue glow. Lance unscrews his eyes, peeping at the screen.

 

 **Keith:** Oh shit, I’m so sorry! I just started thinking of an accompanying melody and I wrote it down. Sorry.

 **Lance:** no no it’s cool!!!! I just wanted to say that I liek it a lot!!1

 

God, did that sounds too eager? Keith didn’t seem to think so. His reply was swift and hesitant. Lance can’t help the bashful smile that creeps up his face as Keith’s next text appears.

 

 **Keith:** … Really?

 **Lance:** yea!! it goes rly well wit the tune keith it’s rly good!

 

There’s a delay between Lance’s message and Keith’s response: One that poses the perfect opportunity for Lance’s self-destructive brain to kick into overdrive as he re-reads the conversation. Dammit, he sounded desperate. He’d randomly texted Keith in the middle of the night with no explanation as to how he’d gotten the other boy’s number only to gush to him about a few notes scribbled over the bars on the page. Keith was gonna think he was a freak, if he didn’t already after today. Lance can feel the same twitchiness from earlier start to coil in his muscles, and he takes a few deep steadying breaths as he wills the dark thoughts away. When his phone buzzes this time, Lance looks at it with open eyes.

 

 **Keith:** Would you… Maybe wanna play it together some time?

 

Lance feels his heart squeeze uncomfortably, and he unconsciously raises a hand the rest against his sternum. The message is laced with uncertainty, hesitation and nervousness bleeding through the screen into Lance’s eyes like plasma. Keith had already rejected his offer to play together, and yet here he was extending the invitation. Lance’s mind drifts back to the violin he’d heard humming throughout the halls earlier, how it had seemed to sing through his very blood. He tried to imagine how it would sound with his piano, knitting both timbres together into something new and beautiful. He felt like was grasping at straws, trying and failing to conjure the exact cadence of the melody in his mind. He wanted to hear it for himself. He _needed_ to.

 

 **Lance:** definitely

 **Lance:** tmw after class?

 **Keith:** Uh actually that’s not a good time for me since I won't be attending the morning lesson. I can do the afternoon?

 **Lance:** u gt a hot date or smth???

 

Lance frowns as he hits send. Was he being too forward? Just because Keith had talked him down from a full-blown panic attack didn’t mean that he owed Lance an explanation of his life. And it isn’t like Keith having a date is completely implausible anyway: The guy is wicked talented at the violin and attractive to boot. What with the whole dark and brooding thing going on, and those piercings indigo eyes that felt as if they could see Lance’s entire soul. Long eyelashes, too. Pretty.

 

 **Keith:** Or something…

 

Lance squinted at the enigmatic ellipsis, his bottom lip jutting out comically as he sneered. This wasn't the first time Keith's absence from class had gone unexplained. Considering the events of the day, Keith saying that he wouldn't be attending class in the morning the following day leaves Lance with a heavy feeling in his gut, his insides writhing as they attempt to tie themselves into knots. Still, it wasn't his business, and since Keith hasn't offered up any explanation as to where he would alternatively be, Lance doesn't think it is exactly his place to ask. Fine, Lance huffs. Whatever! If Keith doesn’t want to share that information with him then he didn’t have to. Lance wasn't going to force him.

 

 **Lance:** cool c u tmw afternoon then!!!

 **Keith:** See you tomorrow, Lance :)

 

Lance dropped his phone, forcefully quashing the sliver of warmth that fluttered through his chest at the smiley face. Maybe he was getting sick. Suddenly feeling a lot more fatigued, Lance dropped his phone on the bedroom floor next to the crumpled sheets of music, the room finally blackening as the screen light dimmed. As sleep tugs insistently at his eyelids, Lance hears the echo of Keith’s violin percolating in his thoughts. The high reedy sounds spin around his cranium like sugar in a cotton candy machine, and as he slowly drifts off, Lance catches the first few keys of a piano.


	11. Dal Segno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dal Segno - From the sign.
> 
> Keith and Lance practice together for a bit.
> 
> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."
> 
> < If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING. >

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the update schedule is once a month? I mean nobody told me so...  
> This chapter was weirdly hard to get out so idk about the pacing or whatever but hey ho, that's how it goes.

Even though Lance had hit the pillow heavy with exhaustion, he wakes up relatively early. Just a few minutes before his alarm, in fact.

He rolls over onto his side, blinking away the last tenacious strands of sleep that cling to his eyelids as he runs one hand through his pillow-mussed hair. His fingers search tiredly for his phone on his bedroom floor, tips scanning the carpet in blind quest. He finally locates it, pulling it up to his face with great effort. When he unlocks the screen, the first thing Lance sees in the conversation thread with Keith from the previous night. His bleary gaze rolls over the illuminated text, the words drifting slowly through his brain like fog before they fold into a coherent sentence.

Keith was going to play a duet with him.

Keith was going to play a duet with _him._

A strange sense of giddiness wells up inside Lance’s body like a water fountain, sliding somewhere between his ribs.

He hadn’t written the original composition as a piece for violin, he’d written it for himself as part of an assignment. But discontent with just that, Lance had wanted to weave the music together in a way that reflected his very being.

Thinking back on how Keith had played his music gave Lance an involuntary shiver. Whether he was aware of it or not, Keith had taken a small glimpse of Lance’s soul and threaded his fingers through it with the draw of his bow.

Lance pushes himself a little further up in bed, drawing his knees up to his chest as he allows the duvet to fall in a bunch around his waist. He swipes the pages of music off the floor next to his mattress, bringing them up to his face as he rubs the lingering traces of sleep from his eyes. Letting his gaze roam lazily over the staves, the memory of Keith’s playing gathers around the edges of Lance’s consciousness like waves crowding a beach.

He’s only heard Keith play a few bars the day before. It doen’t feel like enough, somehow, and Lance feels itchy to hear more. Keith’s violin has brought an entirely different dimension to his music, one that Lance hasn’t explored before. Naturally, of course – It had been written with the timbre of a piano in mind, and for two hands no less. So when Lance thought of it being played by a violin, his mind could only imagine so much before he felt limited by his own lack of knowledge.

 _You’ll hear it today,_ a little voice in his head reminds him.

That’s right! Lance feels a smile crawl over his features, a short fizz of excitement bursting through his nerves and making his hands slap his knees repeatedly.

He climbs out of bed and heads to the shower, eager to start the day. He emerges from his small bathroom a few minutes later, towel wrapped around his waist whilst he brushes his teeth.

Once Lance is dressed, he grabs his bag and shoves a couple of books in that he needs for class. He’s got one foot out the door when he spies a few ASL worksheets on top of his desk. Lance does a double-take – He’s pretty sure he hasn’t seen these signs before. Letting his dorm room door swing closed, he walks over to the desk and picks up the sheets to get a better look at them. Yep, he definitely hasn’t seen these before. Allura probably dropped them by yesterday and he’d been so exhausted that he hadn’t noticed them until just now. Deciding that there’s no real time to study them now, Lance stuffs them in between the pages of his notebook. At least they’ll be there if class gets boring. And technically he’s still learning so it totally counts. Lance gives himself a self-affirming nod before turning on his heel and heading out the door towards Iverson’s lecture.

 

 

 

 

Even though Keith had said the night before that he’d be absent, it doesn’t stop Lance from glancing around the lecture hall hopefully as he takes his seat. Sitting with Keith had become a weird custom for him. It felt… comfortable. Lance had never really done well with silences. They were something he filled up with idle chatter and bad jokes, as if puns could keep his strange paranoia from swallowing him up.

But with Keith it is different. Lance can’t explain it very well, though he can appreciate the thoughts that escape definition. Keith may not appreciate silence, but he’s starting to make Lance. There is an easiness that came with not having to deflect and distract using fancy words and cheesy one-liners, something companionable in the comfortable quiet.

And of course there’s the incident that happened the day before. Lance doesn’t really want to dwell on the fact that Keith’s unexplained absence pretty much gave him a panic attack. Maybe not the whole thing, but fuck dude, it sure was the catalyst. Lance knows himself well enough to be able to tell when something sets him off. But like he said, it’s not something he wants to dwell on.

Lance spins his pen absently, his thoughts rolling over each other slow and ceaselessly, the way a stream rolls rocks along its bottom. He’s just brought his hand up to grab his notebook when the sound of someone clearing their throat startles him. Lance jerks at the sudden noise, flipping his pen wildly out of his hand. The person snatchess neatly it out of the air before it flies into the seats below.

Lance blinks, his gaze slowly travelling from the pen held lightly between the person’s fingers, down their lean arm until finally finding their face.

“Hey man," Rolo says calmly.

Lance just stares at him, watching silently as Rolo slides the pen smoothly across the table back to him.

“Are you even in this class?” Lance asks, finding his voice.

He eyes Rolo suspiciously as he curls his fingers possessively over the pen.

“Yeaaaaah, no I’m not,” Rolo replies.

He scratches his cheek with dull nails, casting an anxious sort of look over the still empty seats in the lecture hall. Taking a deep breath, he drops his hand and levels Lance with a look.

“I really just wanted to apologise for yesterday.”

Lance’s eyebrows shoot waaaay up into his hairline, and he almost drops the pen again.

“I realised after you’d left that you didn’t really seem okay, and Keith seemed pretty worried so…”  
Rolo trails off, his expression sheepish and uncomfortable as he scuffs the toe of one very worn out sneaker over the floor.

“You spoke to Keith?” Lance asks.

Oh god, what had Keith said? Rolo was going to tell everyone that he was a massive freak. People were going to look at him like he was a crazy person because he broke down about a fucking practice room.

Lance’s frenzied thoughts are halted as Rolo gives him a lopsided smile, simultaneously raising his hands to motion a quick patterns of gestures.

<”We sign, actually.”>

Lance throws his hands up in the air with genuine exasperation, his eyes rolling so far back into his head he can almost hear them rattling around in his skull.

“Does _everyone_ at this damn university know ASL?”

Rolo chuckles at his reaction, dropping his hands to slide them casually into his pockets.

“My partner actually teaches it. She runs a class near hear,” he explained.

Lance quirks an eyebrow at the statement. Rolo had a partner that taught ASL locally? Surely the world wasn’t that small?

“Nyma?” he asks, half hoping he’s wrong.

“Yeah!” Rolo’s eyes light up with recognition at the mention of the name. “You take her class, dude?”

Lance nods slowly, like a bobble-head toy, as a sliver of unease wraps itself around his spine.

“Yeah. Twice a week.”

Rolo cocks his head at the admission, an equation dancing behind his eyes as he puts two and two together.

“No way. You learning for Keith, huh?”

Lance knew the question was coming. The question always follows the revelation that, yes, he is in fact learning ASL. He opens his mouth to deny it, but something forces him to pause. He turns his head, eyes taking in the rows of empty seats in the hall.

Who is trying to kid? He _is_ learning ASL for Keith. Sure, maybe it started out as him wanting to use it simply to provoke the other boy. But now it was helping their relationship, Lance couldn’t deny that learning sign language was helping him too.

It allowed him see Keith in a different light. The violinist no longer seemed like a stuck up musical genius, malcontent with anyone’s company but his own. Now he appeared how he truly was – contemplative, hot-headed, broody sure, but a little self-conscious.

Lance can admit it to himself easily enough, but there’s something about admitting his intentions behind taking classes to everyone else that seems… Daunting. Like how you shouldn’t name things because then you’ll get attached to them. It becomes tangible, visible, open for judgement.

But… There’s no one in the lecture hall at the moment.

So when Lance sees Rolo looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised slightly as he waits for an answer, Lance lets himself give in, a soft smile drifting easily over his lips.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He sounds happy. “Yeah I am.”

Rolo looks happy, too, his crooked smile evening out into a toothy grin.

“Fuck, man. That’s really cool of you!”

Rolo holds out his hand for Lance to shake.

“It’s Leandro, right?”

“Lance,” the Cuban corrects, slapping his palm into Rolo’s grip and letting the other give it a firm shake.

“Lance,” Rolo repeats. “I’m Rolo. Loved your piece, by the way.”

It’s a lucky thing Lance has already let go of the other guy’s hand, because his grip on his seat turns white-knuckled.

“You butchered it,” he says without thinking. He freezes instantly.

Fuck! Rolo was being so chill, coming to an early class to apologise. And here Lance was, blurting out insults like an asshole. He holds his breath, waiting for the harsh bite of a reply to come.

“Yeeeah,” Rolo concedes with a huff of laughter, much to Lance’s surprise. “I mean, I’m good at piano, but I’m not _that_ good. I’m nowhere near your level and you’re the one that wrote the thing.”

Lance lets out the breath he was holding slowly, uncurling his fingers gently from the edge of his seat as a bubble of warmth swells in his chest at the praise.

“You liked it?” he asks curiously.

And okay, maybe because he wants some positive affirmation as well. Sue him.

“Hell yeah I did. You should play it at the talent showcase for sure. I heard there’s gonna be scouts there.”

Lance feels his jaw drop. He stares at Rolo wordlessly, a sentence trapped in the back of his throat as he soaks up the new information. He forces words of his mouth with a small choking noise.

“Sc-Outs?”

Rolo seems amused, but he has the good grace not to comment as Lance gawks at him like a goldfish.

“Yup!” he replies, lips popping the ‘p’ before they’re followed by a smug grin. “Apparently they’ve got people coming from Garrison Concerto.”

Lance’s entire system of internal organs does a backflip. Not at the same time. Nope. One after another. He feels a weird convulsion all the way up through his body, and this time he actually does drop the pen.

Rolo seems to be barely supressing his laughter, lips pursed together as a smile yanks demandingly at the corners of his mouth, fighting to be free. His eyes glitter with mirth for a second before his face goes slack, his mouth forming a little “o” as an idea comes to him.

“You should play it with Keith!”

If Lance’s jaw could drop all the way off his body and through the floorboards, it would. But as it stands, his eyes decide to compensate and bug out inside his head. Rolo can’t quash his laughter any longer, and a loud chuckle echo through the empty lecture hall as it bursts from his mouth.

“Oh man,” he wheezes, one hand splaying over his chest. “You should see your face. Most people have a similar reaction when they find out Garrison’s gonna be there, but oh my God you just look so- SO-“

Rolo’s eyes get wide and round as dinner plates, his mouth opening comically wide as he tucks his bottom lip over his lower teeth. His caricature of Lance lasts all of one second before he dissolves into a light chuckle.

“Seriously though,” Rolo starts, laughter dying down. “Keith had some good notes. I think the two of you would be really good together.”

Lance’s jaw shuts with a snap, his face knocking up a few degrees in temperature.

Rolo raises one eyebrow, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Lance,” he says warningly, a lazy grin stretching across his face. “It was nice to meet you.”

And then Rolo turns on his heel, sauntering nonchalantly down the stairs towards the exit, the occasional lift of his slim shoulders the only indication to his laughter.

“And I’m sorry again about yesterday!” he calls over his shoulder.

With a loose wave, Rolo swiftly leaves the lecture hall, leaving Lance in a shell-shocked state.

Lance hadn’t even considered performing the piece as a duet. When he’d texted Keith yesterday, he’d mostly been curious to hear the other boy’s notes over the top of his composition. He can string out the twin melodies in his head easily enough, but it feels like a pale mimic of what the duet could actually sound like. The memory of Keith playing feels muted somehow, obscured by the fog of overwhelming emotions that Lance had been experiencing at the time. They settle over the strings of the violin like a thick blanket, obscuring and invasive. The more Lance tugs at it, the tighter it seemed to wrap.

 _Relax,_ Lance tells himself firmly. _You’ll be playing with him this afternoon._

Lance repeated the words like a mantra as he tapped the end of his pen on his notebook. He was still tapping away, brow furrowing with thought as the rest of the class began filtering in through the lecture hall. It was only when one of his classmates nudged him in the shoulder that Lance was tugged out of his own headspace.

“Lance,” the girl said. Megan, he thinks her name is? “Are you gonna keep tapping that all through the lesson?”

Lance blinks at her, turning his head to look round the hall. Holy shit, when had class started? Iverson was marching around in front of the seats, barking about Einaudi’s use of coda or something. Lance had been so deep under the layers of his own mind that he hadn’t even noticed that he should be taking notes. He glances anxiously at Megan’s notebook next to him. To Lance’s dismay he sees that she’s written almost a full page.

“Sorry,” he mutters, self-consciously folding the pen under his fingers.

He slips a sideways glance at the page again, desperately trying to memorise some of it before Megan catches him spying. It’s to little avail. No sooner has Lance leant an inch in her direction than the girl’s attention is on him, peering at him curiously, if not a little disgruntled.

“Sorry,” Lance says again. “Do you mind if I…”

He gestures vaguely at the notes on her page.

“Oh!” she makes a little noise of surprise, a small pinch forming between her eyebrows.

Lance shoots her his most charming smile, cocking his head to one side and peeking up at her through his lashes, hoping she’ll take the bait. Megan’s wary face slowly melts into a bashful smile, the corner of her mouth twisting shyly. Lance internally breathes a sigh of relief, scooting his seat a little closer as she uncurls the notebook from her hand.

“He’s talking about sound frequencies today,” she whispers, pointing at Iverson,

“Frequencies?” Lance frowns. “Like vibrations and stuff?”

This was music _theory_ class. Lance was smart, but frequencies were Hunk’s game.

“Yeah,” Megan nodded enthusiastically. “He’s talking about how different frequencies and note sequences can evoke certain emotions.”

Lance nods sagely like he understands, but really he’s a little lost. It sounds interesting though, and the subject has definitely piqued Lance’s curiosity. He leans over as Megan slides her notebook under his nose, eyes wandering keenly down the page. He picks up his pen, scribbling down as much as he can in as little time as possible. Lance can see Megan’s fingers twitching, eager to take the notebook back as Iverson wages ahead, moving rapidly along with the topic.

Lance nudges her notes back towards her once he’s done, all at once enraptured with the subject.

Iverson is continuing to holler about vibrations, one eye screwed up tightly as he paces to and fro over the short space in front of the whiteboard.

He’s giving examples of how pitch and frequency affect mood, a few clips in the presentation showing how elephants call to each other or something. Honestly, if this lecture were a textbook, Lance would be skimming these parts and flicking ahead to what was important. It’s only when Iverson moves onto note patterns that Lance starts to get truly interested.

Note patterns and musical runs were is area of expertise. Having long fingers gave the tall boy something of an advantage when it came to fingering technique, and it gave him the liberty to add a little flare into his own compositions, safe in the knowledge that he was writing in a way that fit his own skillset like a glove.

A small idea tugs at the back of his mind, and the tall boy sits a little further forward in his seat.

It suddenly doesn’t matter how untypical the subject matter is, or how Iverson seems to spit out every word as if it has personally offended him just by being in his mouth. It doesn’t even matter that Lance’s dulled anxiety lies at the fringes of his consciousness. The theory class has presented him the end of a thread, and like a child with a toy, Lance is going to pull on it until it unravels to reveal something bright and new and shiny.

“Lance!”

Lance looks up when Megan whispers his name. He turns to her, taking in her slightly annoyed expression.

“You’re still tapping your pen.”

Lance looks down to his notebook. There’s an actual _dent_ in the page from where he’s been flicking the stationary so hard.

“Sorry,” he replies with a sheepish grin.

Megan seems appeased at the apology and returns to taking her own notes.

Lance lets the smile sit on his face. In his head, he pulls his composition into view, letting the notes splay out across a blank caves like cave paintings. Carefully, and with Iverson’s theories held firmly, Lance begins to restructure his piece. He shuffles notes, moves them around, slots new ones into their place so that they overlap and combine and twist and turn and push and pull.

He actually has to hold onto both ends of his pen to stop himself from tapping it against the page again.

He can’t wait to tell Hunk.

 

Lance walks briskly to the practice room, his long legs eating up more of the ground than usual as his lengthy strides carry across the pavement.

He’s still riding the high from his idea, a slight buzz tingling his veins as he makes his way to his usual practice room. Lance pushes open the door, chucking his bag down on the floor once he’s grabbed his sheet music and a pencil out of it. He feels excited, the rush that comes with discovering a new melody coursing through him in a steady flow. Enough to have him bouncing his leg furiously as he sits down on the piano stool and lines the pages up on the music stand.

His eyes flick over the notes, the tune coming together in his head as he scribbles in a few notes here and there. Keith’s writing hovers above his own in the blank space between the bars, as if it wants to take part in the music but is hesitating. Lance doesn’t allow it.

He grabs himself a fresh page and _pulls_ Keith’s music into his own, wrapping them around each other tightly.

Lance doesn’t claim to know too much about violin. He mostly knows what classmates have told him, or just about violin music in theory. And he can admit that when it comes to composing, he’s fairly reliant on his own capabilities to pull him through. It suddenly occurs to Lance that such a style of composing may actually be something of a bad habit.

He doesn’t want to be a composer per se, but it would be nice if other people were able to play his pieces too.

The thought has Lance’s hand stalling on the page, the tip of the pencil poised just above the surface of the new page.

He can’t write a duet using just his own skills as a base. That wasn’t going to work for Keith. It didn’t matter how talented the violinist was, and Lance had no doubt that Keith would be able to play his music beautifully.

But if he wrote Keith’s music on his own, then the piece would be his own, with just the other boy playing along.

It felt… Unnatural.

“You seem deep in thought.”

For the second time that morning, Lance startles at the sound of a voice close to his ear. He jumps in his seat, twisting around to see Keith standing behind him, a small smile curving his lips.

Keith is wearing a black t-shirt, with ripped black jeans, and black DMs. He’s really dressed almost entirely in black, except for his shirt. He’s wearing a faded red shirt over the black tee, with the buttons open and the sleeves rolled up, which is just… yeah. Keith has his violin slung over his back, the strap crossing over his chest and around his ribs.

He seems amused at Lance’s reaction.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Lance splutters.

Why does he feel like he’s been caught doing something cheeky?

“And I thought I was the deaf one.”

Keith tone is laced with mirth, and he drops his violin off his shoulder, moving to one of the chairs in the corner to unpack the instrument. Lance is relieved he’s turned his back – he doesn’t know if he should laugh at the joke or not. Would it be in bad taste?

Keith turns around, bows in hand, glimpsing Lance’s pained expression.

“It’s a joke, Lance,” Keith clarifies. Some of the amusement drains from his eyes. “You can laugh.”

Lance musters up the best smile he can. Keith doesn’t seem impressed, but he pulls out a digital tuner before plucking at the strings of his violin.

“Do you want me to help?” Lance calls from where he sits on the piano, before slapping his head.

“Keith!”

Keith turns around, to Lance’s surprise. Lance points at the violin.

“Do you want help tuning?”

Keith frowns for a split second before comprehension dawns on his face.

“Oh, er… I mean I have a digital thing to help me…” he trails off.

“Yeah, but I’m here now.”

Keith looks away, the fingers of his hand pausing their ministrations on the pegs.

“It’s okay, I find it pretty easy this way.”

“Oh.”

Lance looks down at his hands. He hopes he hasn’t offended Keith in some way.

The dark-haired boy just continues to tune his violin in silence, not sparing a look in Lance’s direction as he adjusts the tautness of the strings. Lance does his best not to fidget. Instead, he distracts himself by turning back to the music stand and scribbling a few more notes down on the page. It doesn’t really help much though. He’s struggling to focus on the music when he’s hyper aware of the boy behind him. He can hear the soft twang of the strings as Keith’s fingers pluck at them, the bending of the sound as they are tightened and loosened appropriately. Heck, Lance can even hear Keith’s breathing, even and slow like the tide.

After a full minute, Keith clicks the digital tuner off, slipping it back into the side pocket of his violin case. He stands, tucking the rest under his chin before he draws the bow over the strings in a few brisk strokes. The sound fills the room like water fills a glass, splashing against the walls and filling the space with colour. Lance twists around to catch a glimpse of Keith as he finishes the last bar of his test play, nimble fingers scurrying down the neck of the instrument.

Keith allows the violin to drop when he’s finished, holding it loosely in his hand as he turns to face Lance.

He takes a deep steadying breath before opening his mouth to speak.

“I just wanna say first: This isn’t going to work if you’re constantly worrying about what you can and can’t say around me. I mean both that both audibly and appropriately.”

Lance blinks, a flush of pure embarrassment climbing all the way up his throat to his cheeks.

“That being said,” Keith forged on, ignoring the shade of red Lance had just turned. “Just treat me like a normal person. Like you would treat any other musician that came in here. It’s okay to make jokes about me being deaf. I think after the way we first got off I might have thought you were trying to offend me but now I... I mean after everything that’s happened with yesterday…”

Keith coughs awkwardly, glancing down at his feet.

“I’m trying to say that I don’t think you’re that kind of person. I don’t think you’d say things out of malicious intent, so… Yeah.”

Lance doesn’t really know what to say. What’s he supposed to say??

Keith’s giving him a very wide-eyed look. He seems just about ready to blot out the door at the first opportunity, like a deer in headlights. He looks scared, vulnerable. And it breaks Lance’s heart a little bit. No one should have to feel that way about something they can’t help.

So he lets a mischievous grin slide across his face, fixing Keith with a flirtatious leer and a pair of finger guns.

“You got it, doornail.”

The tension from Keith’s shoulder disappears so quickly, even Lance feels a bit lighter just by watching the way the violinist sighs with relief, a happy smile lighting up his face.

“Very funny, Leandro.”

“Watch that,” Lance warns. But he’s still grinning, so Keith is still grinning, and the two lapse into a silence that is remarkably more comfortable from the one they just came from.

Keith comes to stand behind Lance’s right shoulder, staring at the music on the piano stand as Lance scrawls lopsided quavers along the bar lines.

“Are you changing the key there?” Keith asks, slipping his bow into his other hand and pointing to the hastily written sharps next to the treble clef.

“Uh, yeah,” Lance mumbles, suddenly self-conscious. <”Yeah.> Too much?”

Keith’s eyes linger on the sheet for a few more seconds, the notes reflected in their dark colour, before taking a step back to tuck his violin under his chin.

Lance holds his breath as Keith raises the bow, letting it balances lightly on the strings, just below the bridge.

Keeping his eyes trained on the sheet music, Keith draws the bow down in a long languid stroke. Lance’s eyes follows the motion like a hawk until Keith abruptly changes direction, his fingers dancing over the strings on the upstroke as he lifts his wrist. The sound bursts into the room, like it was waiting for an invitation. Lance blinks a little dumbfounded as he realises that Keith isn’t wearing his fingerless gloves today. It leaves a catwalk of skin from his elbow up to his fingers perplexingly bare. Lance’s eyes trace their way up the line, lingering on the way Keith holds his bow. Gently, yet still firm. Like he’s holding a bird.

And Keith has… Really nice wrists. They look almost delicate as he tilts with the draw, and the change in key pulls Lance out of his stupor to realise that he’s staring. He quickly looks away, stubbornly fixing his attention instead on the music, eyes following the notes as Keith’s fingers bring them to life. The violinist drops his bow suddenly, cutting off the half formed notes beneath the tips of his fingers. Lance’s head snaps around like a pez dispenser.

“What’s wrong?”

Keith is frowning at his music, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he chews it thoughtfully.

“It doesn’t… It doesn’t _feel_ right.”

“Oh.” Lance deflates like a balloon.

Maybe Keith didn’t like his composition after all. Keith comes up behind him again, this time leaning down to get a better look at the music over Lance’s shoulder. He’s so close that Lance can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, a few of the longer locks by his eyes brushing the pianist’s cheek. Lance doesn’t dare turn his head, lest he want to accidentally knock noses with Keith, and that would be… Bad, right?

“You’re writing the piano for the violin,” Keith murmurs.

Lance signs yes a little nervously. Keith turns his head to level Lance with an even stare. At this proximity it has Lance gulping down a bunch of different emotions fighting their way up his throat, and he swallows thickly, hoping that Keith doesn’t notice.

“Don’t do that,” Keith commands.

Lance finds himself nodding mutely in assent.

“If it’s going to be a duet, then it’s got to _play_ like a duet. Both parties,” Keith elaborates. “I don’t want it to be violin with piano accompaniment. That’s not… That’s such a waste of your talent.”

The words catch Lance by surprise, and he averts his gaze, not wanting Keith to see the way his face changes colour at the subtle praise.

Keith thinks that he’s talented!

The idea has a small tingle running up and down Lance’s spine, and he involuntarily straightens his back.

“Lance, you okay?”

Lance’s eyes swivel to the side to catch a glimpse of Keith. The violinist’s eyebrows are furrowed in concern, his lips puckering in a small pout. Lance violently shakes himself, and action that has Keith jolting backwards a little.

“Fine,” Lance says, forcing a grin. “Random shudder.”

Keith just frowns at him. Lance doesn’t know if it’s because he’s misread his lips or because he’s still concerned, but either way he turns back to the piano, settling his fingers lightly over the notes.

“How about you just play the original composition first and I’ll put my parts in over the top?” Keith suggests after a moment.

“Sounds good,” Lance answers with a nod.

He waits for Keith to straighten up, flicking a glance over his shoulder as his lifts his hands dramatically to signal that he’s beginning to play. His fingers come down on the piano to play the first few bars. The action relaxes him, his body slipping easily into the muscle memory founded upon years of playing. His eyes scan the music, waiting for Keith to join in where his notes are written above Lance’s own. But Keith doesn’t play. Lance plays the next few bars, waiting, waiting, anticipating the draw of a bow, the first few notes that follow the biro on the page but…

But nothing happens.

Lance stops playing the piano, turning slightly on the stool to send the other boy a quizzical look.

Keith’s features hang in a dazed expression, his eyes fixed on Lance’s face. His lips are parted in a little “o”, purple irises glassy and his pupils dilated.

“What?” Lance blurts intelligibly. He belated signs the word as well, just to make sure Keith understood him.

“What?” Keith repeats back.

He blinks at Lance, lips closing as he gives his head a little shake.

“Sorry, I- Can you start again?”

Lance frowns but doesn’t say anything. Maybe Keith was getting sick? He wasn’t at the morning lecture after all. Deciding not to dwell on it, Lance lifts his hands with another flourish, dropping them dramatically on the ivories.

This time when he plays, Keith comes in right on cue. The timbre that he pulls from his violin falls seamlessly into the melody Lance plays on his piano, the tune folding around the composition as if it had always been there. It makes the taller boy feel… Warm. There was something about it that he couldn’t really put into words.

He’d written a part of himself down on paper, his heart and soul pouring itself into the music through the arrangement. And Keith had taken this raw part of him and written a compliment. It made Lance feel exposed, vulnerable, and validated all the same time.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s stopped playing until Keith clears his throat from behind him.

“Oh, er…” Lance doesn’t really know what to say.

It doesn’t matter that much though, since Keith clears the silence for him.

“Don’t worry, I just got confused because I was looking at your hands and you stopped.”

Lance frowns at that.

“You were looking at my hands?”

Keith frowns at Lance’s mumbling, so he does his best to sign what he can.

<”You were looking at my hands?”

“Yeah, I have to so I can see where to come in,” Keith explained.

Oh. But if Keith was looking at Lance’s hands whilst he was playing then how was he playing his own piece? Did he know it off by heart? Was he simultaneously juggling two pieces of music in his head at the same time? That was… Seriously impressive. Lance stared at Keith with a new sense of awe. He hadn’t really appreciated how much the shorter boy would have to compensate for his lack of hearing until just then, but it made him admire Keith’s talent that much more.

<”That’s really cool,”> Lance signed.

Keith smiled bashfully, adjusting the bow in his hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I could give you like, a nod or something every four bars if that would help?” Lance said.

Keith’s eyebrows disappeared under his bangs, as if the idea had surprised him.

“That… Is actually a pretty good idea,” he said slowly.

“Don’t sound so surprised! I’m a musical genius after all.”

“How could I forget?” Keith jests with a roll of his eyes.

Lance shoots him a wicked grin just as Keith turns around and marches back across the room to rest his violin back in his case.

“Are we done?” Lance asks in confusion.

He doesn’t want to finish now! They had just started!

He remains silent as Keith crosses back over the room. Keith takes a step forward and slips himself between the stool and the piano, settling on the seat next to Lance. The stool isn’t that wide, and so their legs press together a little more firmly than Lance would have said was friendly. He can feel the heat from Keith’s legs seeping through his jeans, and their shoulders brush as Keith gets comfortable.

“Uh…” Lance grasps for words that don’t come. Not that Keith seems to mind.

He’s leaning forward, peering at the music with a narrowed gaze. He doesn’t seem to mind how close they’re pressed together, barely seems to notice, actually. If he does, he doesn’t mention it, and Lance sits fidgeting as Keith scrutinizes his composition.

“I’m memorising the music,” he explains after a few beats of silence. “So I know where our pieces line up.”

Lance hums thoughtfully to himself. He doesn’t think he’s really given Keith enough credit for his intelligence. No wonder critics rave about him. Playing his own parts flawlessly whilst watching and adjusting to other musicians’ music required some serious compartmentalisation, such that Lance wasn’t sure his scattered brain could achieve.

He could adjust to violinists he was accompanying just fine, but Lance was just realising now how heavily he relied on his own hearing for that. Keith was just… On another level, really.

“Keith,” Lance begins, turning his head so that Keith can read his lips. “Do you… Ya know, _like_ playing violin?”

Keith’s face remains impassive at the odd question, but he tilts his head to the side as he considers his answer.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “I think I do like it. Just kind of a shame since…”

Keith taps his hearing aids, a wry smile painting his features.

Lance is about to give him a sympathetic look, hand poised to pat Keith’s consolingly on the shoulder when his words from earlier come floating back.

_Just treat me like a normal person._

Lance scuppers his plan to try and console Keith instantly. Instead, he leans forward, propping one elbow up on the music stand as he put on his best crowd-pleasing grin.

“Okay, so you can’t hear great. There must be stuff you like to _look_ at though, right? What your favourite thing to see?”

Keith’s eyes linger on Lance for a heavy few seconds, his stare intense and burning in a way that has Lance’s face feeling warm. After a moment, he looks up, chewing his lip thoughtfully.

“Sunsets,” he admits. “They paint the sky with fire.”

It’s such a simple answer, it leaves Lance wondering what response he was expecting in the first place.

Which was why when the raven lifted his hand to press tentatively on the notes of the piano, Lance did nothing but watch with baited breath. Keith played out the basic tune of the arrangement, skipping over the complicated finger work and note runs in favour of simplifying the melody.

<“You… Play piano?”> Lance asks hesitantly.

“Scared I’m coming for your crown?” Keith teased.

There’s a cheeky glint in his eye, and Lance can’t help but grin along with him.

“Maybe. Maybe I’ll suddenly reveal that I’ve been a concerto violinist this entire time. First chair and everything.”

Keith barks out a laugh, his head falling back as his eyes crinkle at the corners. Lance lights up inside and out. Keith laughing was something, alright.

“Wow. Looks _and_ talent.”

“Naturally,” Lance smirks. And then when he processes what Keith has said, “Wait, you think I’m good looking?”

Keith’s mouth shuts with a snap. His cheeks flare a bright pink, and he ducks his head so that his bangs fall into his eyes, an action that Lance is quickly coming to associate with wanting to hide.

Lance lifts his hand, hesitating for a second before he reaches forward and softly, so softly, brushes the dark hair out of Keith’s face.

Keith freezes as Lance fingers sweep through his bangs, his whole body tensing like a coiled spring. Slowly, he turns his head to fix Lance with that intense violet gaze.

If he didn’t think it was it such poor taste, Lance would have said that the silence was deafening. But as it is, the air seems to still around them, Lance’s long fingers still woven loosely through the dark locks surrounding Keith face. Keith doesn’t say anything, he barely moves at all, even as Lance fingers continue their journey, brushing a feather-light touch over the other boy’s ear and travelling down his neck. Keith shudders at the contact, and Lance _feels_ his breathing hitch as the warmth from Keith’s throat creeps up his fingertips.

Keith’s phone buzzes in his pocket, the vibration startling them both. Lance snatches his hand away from Keith’s neck, tucking it firmly under his own leg as if it has committed a felony. Keith scrambles to tug his phone from his pocket, flicking the screen up to look at the text he’s just received. It lingers on the screen for a whole two seconds before the device dies in Keith’s hands.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. “Out of battery.”

Lance sneaks a glance at the other boy. His cheeks are still stained red, the tips of his ears poking out from under his thick hair a few shades darker.

He didn’t just imagine that happened, right?

“Can I borrow your phone?” Keith asks, knocking Lance back to the present. He lifts his gaze to meet Lance’s own.

<”Yeah, uh, it’s in my bag.”>

Lance gestures to his bag across the room. Keith stands, shuffling over to pick it up off the floor. He flips open the flap at the top, routing around the bottom until he finds the phone. He moves to pull it out of the bag, but his hand catches on Lance’s notebook and the whole thing comes tumbling out as well. Unfortunately, the pages flip open on their descent, spilling the contents out all over the floor.

“Shit, sorry!” Keith cries.

He drops to his knees, gathering up the scattered pieces of paper.

Lance stands to help when he spots the corner of one of the sheets of paper, a small illustration of a hand motion clearly visible, and realises which notes have fallen out. At the very same time as Keith.

“Lance,” Keith murmurs.

“Wait!” Lance gasps, practically sliding across the floor in his haste to retract what Keith’s has just discovered.

Keith lifts one of Nyma’s worksheets in his hand, his wide-eyed gaze staring at it in dawning comprehension.

“Lance,” he says again, voice barely above a whisper. “Are you… Taking ASL classes?”

Lance whisks the sheet out of Keith’s hand, grabbing as many pieces of paper off the floor as he can before the violinist sees anything else. Not that it really matters now. Keith knows.

Keith gulps, the steel fleck in his indigo eyes softening into something more like silver.

“Are you taking ASL classes?” he asks again, voice gentle.

Lance’s frenzied collection of his notes slows, his hands coming to rest upon the haphazard stack he’s already gathered as he takes a breath. What does it matter trying to hide it now? Keith has already seen the work sheets. Lying would just confuse him and put a strain on their already tentative friendship. So instead, he lifts his gaze to stare Keith dead in the eyes.

_< ”Yes.”>_

Keith’s jaw drops a little, his breathing becoming shallow. With slightly trembling fingers, he lifts his hands to sign.

_< ”Can you understand me?”>_

Lance can’t tear his gaze away.

_< ”Yes, I can understand you.”>_

Keith’s hands drop, and he wobbles slightly where he’s crouched before falling back on his butt, still staring. Lance can’t tell if he looks horrified or not, but the silence is enough to make his mind run a marathon a minute.

_< ”For me?”>_

Keith’s eyes are glittering like something straight out of a shoujo manga. And Lance… Well, Lance is weak.

_< ”Yeah, for you.”>_

Slowly, ever so slowly, Keith’s face cracks into a mile wide grin.

_< ”Really?!”>_

Lance nods in response.

Keith’s smile is infectious, and Lance can feel laughter bubbling up inside him. The shorter boy looks like Christmas has just come early. Keith lets out a delirious little giggle of incredulous laughter, one hand coming up to press at his chest. Lance bites his lip to try and contain the smile stretching across his face, but it’s no use. They probably look like such a pair of nerds, the two of them sat on the practice room floor grinning at each other like fools.

“That is- I don’t know what to say,” Keith gasps, and Lance laughs at how breathless he sounds. “Thank you, Lance.”

Lance’s heart does a happy little flop in his chest and _oh._ That’s… New. With shaky fingers, he signs a quick response.

_< You’re welcome.> _

Keith is still grinning like a madman, eyes sparkling with joy as he pulls himself to his knees.

<“Didn’t you need to use my phone?”> Lance asks, remembering suddenly.

His signing is probably a bit cack-handed, but Keith seems to be interpreting just fine.

“Oh, yeah!”

Keith holds out the phone for Lance to unlock before pulling up the text conversation with Shiro. Lance is sure he isn’t really looking, but Keith no doubt inadvertently reads the last texts sent between both Lance and Shiro. He raises his eyebrows a bit, eyes flickering up to Lance for a split second, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, his fingers tap away steadily at the screen. A _whoosh_ sound effect lets Lance know that the message has been sent. He doesn’t want to sit around watching Keith like a weirdo, so he busies himself with collecting the last few straggling pages that lay strewn across the floor.

Not two minutes later, his text alerts pings through the quiet that has settled in the practice room.

“Errrr, I’ve gotta go,” Keith says, breaking the silence.

Lance’s head pops up to look at the other boy now standing.

“Oh, uhh- Something happen?”

Keith has been looking at his phone and missed Lance’s question, so the taller boy signs it out.

_< ”Everything okay?”>_

“Yeah,” Keith says hurriedly. It makes Lance immediately suspicious. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Shiro’s just wants to talk to me in private so he can’t text what he wants to say to your phone.”

Keith wiggles the phone in between his fingers before handing it back to Lance as the taller boy gets to his feet.

“Oh, okay.”

Lance doesn’t really want Keith to leave, not when they’ve barely even had a chance to play the piece through fully yet. It somehow feels like if Keith leaves now, the piece will never get finished.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says as he catches the expression on Lance’s face. “I was really looking forward to playing with you. Can we do another day?”

Lance jumps at the opportunity.

<”Yeah? That okay? Tomorrow afternoon?”

Keith gives him a soft smile as he signs out the words, his eyes following the movements closely.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” he agrees, slinging the strap of his violin case over his shoulder.

Keith holds out a hand for Lance to slap. Their hands meet, and for a second a whisper of doubt flickers over Keith’s face before his expression hardens into resolution. Before Lance has time to react, Keith pulls him into a one-armed hug. It’s… Kind of awkward, really. But considering Keith doesn’t really seem like the touchy feely type, the gesture is not lost on Lance. Keith pulls away with a grin, dropping his hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Ooookay,” he breathes. It seems like the gesture caught Keith by surprise too. “I’m just gonna… Go.”

Lance watches Keith lope towards the door, the fat case of the violin bobbing slightly with Keith’s gait. When he’s at the door, Keith pauses, turning around to give Lance a firm look.

“Oh, and Lance? Don’t change the composition.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Lance with a gratifying little glow warming him all the way down to his toes. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith exit stage left, pursued by a bear.


	12. Precipitando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precipitando - rushing; headlong
> 
> And the villain still pursues them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo so I'm sorry I've been away.
> 
> Guess who accidentally deleted their Tumblr blog? THIS FOOL. That's right folks, I done did the dumb. Anyways, I've still got my URL and you can find me over @zizzani. Feel free to come chat with me :D

Lance can’t help the ear-to-ear grin that’s been splitting his face for the last forty minutes. It’s been pulling him off focus, making his piano playing worse, but it’s not fading any time soon. Normally Lance would be beyond frustrated with how badly he’s playing at the moment, fingers skipping over and sliding off notes, hitting wrong keys. What would have otherwise been a beautifully fluid melody is sounded choppy and disjointed. Any other time, Lance would have been playing back over the bars again and again, obsessively hammering out the errors in his music until there was nothing but a perfectly polished example of flawless piano playing.

But today is different. Today is special. Today, Lance lets his fingers slip and slide over the entire length of the ivories, the sounds leaping out of the open top of the mini grand like flying fish as his hands jump erratically over the keys.

Because today, Keith had smiled at Lance like he had hung the moon.

And Lance can’t stop thinking about how brightly Keith’s eyes had sparkled, as if someone had gathered all the stars from the sky and scattering them into those inky dark irises whose exact colour was completely elusive. Or how he’d never noticed before that Keith had dimples when he grinned, probably because Lance had never seen him smile so wide before. And Lance thinks about how Keith bit his lip to try and subdue that smile, and it had only succeeded in making him look cuter.

So Lance lets his usually precise hands hit all the wrong notes that they like, closing his eyes when the tune doesn’t come out quite right just so that he can sigh happily. He lets his hands still on the piano top. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s vaguely aware that for once in his life, he’s not bouncing his leg, or twisting his fingers into knots, or drumming his phone against his thigh in the desperate attempt to distract his body long enough to allow his mind to focus.

For once in his life, Lance just _is._

Which is why when his phone rings, Lance takes it out of his jacket with a blissful, easy smile on his face, completely unprepared for what lies at the end of the other line.

_“WHAT DID YOU DO TO KEITH?!”_

Lance jerks his head away from the phone receiver so fast that he hears his neck click. He glances at the caller ID, lifting one hand to rub at his muscles that are protesting from being yanked at an unexpected angle. Shiro’s name is emblazoned across the top of the phone in luminous white text, a brand as harsh as his voice.

Gingerly, like he’s approaching a wild animal, Lance brings the phone back to his ear.

“And a very good afternoon to you, Takashi. I think I’m as deaf as your brother now.”

“Sorry,” Shiro’s voice says gruffly at the end of the line. “I just… Did something happen with you two?”

“Uuuuh…”

Lance considers telling Shiro about what happened. But… Where would he begin? ‘Hey Shiro, I’m learning ASL for you brother because that’s not random at all’?

“Keith hasn’t stopped smiling since I met him. I think he _giggled_ a second ago. Did you drug my brother? Because I swear, Lance, if I find out you’ve-“

“Relax, Shiro,” Lance says. Cooly. As if he hasn’t just warmed all the way up to his collar like a glow stick. “I haven’t drugged your small angry punk child. We just had practice together.”

There’s a beat of silence on the end of the phone.

“You and Keith were… Practising together?”

“Yeah. We signed a bit, too. I understood okay since I’ve been having classes.”

Well the cat was out of the bag now anyway, Lance figured. That being said, there was something incredibly gratifying about admitting it to Shiro. Lance was always ready to give himself a pat on the back, especially when he thought he deserved it. But this was… Different. He wasn’t doing this for other people’s recognition, not this time. Nor did he particularly feel like he needed it. He was learning ASL for Keith. So that they could talk, so that they could understand one another. Because as much as Lance had _hated_ Keith, as frustrated as he had gotten at Keith’s apparently indifferent attitude to his status as a rising star, he could finally _finally_ admit to himself that at the root of it all…

He’d been entranced.

He’d wanted to know what made Keith tick, what great drive the brooding violinist had hidden behind his stoic mask that made him wake up in the morning and decide he was going to weave together the raw threads of a melody and make them a rich tapestry.

And now that Lance had met Keith, now that he _knew_ Keith, it was as easy as simply asking him.

Lance just had to _ask._

“You’re learning ASL for Keith?”

Shiro’s voice cuts through Lance’s waxing poetic tangent like the harsh snap of a rubber band.

“I… Y-Yeah. Yes, I am,” Lance stutters. Because admitting it to Shiro, gratifying as it he felt it to be, is still pretty nerve-wracking. It was like he’d let a genie out of the bottle – There was no putting it back in.

“No wonder he’d so giddy,” Shiro replies with a slow whistle. “Lance, I don’t think you realise what this means to him.”

Lance coughs out a nervous laugh as he imagined Keith gigging like a child.

“Yeah, I mean he seemed pretty happy about it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Shiro interjects swiftly. “ASL isn’t commonly taught in most American institutes. A lot of people have to go out of their way to learn it, through college minors or external courses. It’s a commitment. And you’re doing that for Keith.”

Something lodges itself in the back of Lance’s throat. He hadn’t considered how accessible ASL lessons were to other people. Now that he thinks back, he hasn’t really heard about it all that much before Keith arrived. So seeking out a course, committing himself not only to paying for the tuition in full, but also the time it would take out of his day… Yeah… He’s doing _that_ for Keith. He’s doing it _for Keith._

“He’s probably told you this already, but I just want to say it as well,” Shiro continues. “We’re both incredibly grateful for what you’re doing.”

Lance swallows thickly against the lump in his throat.

“Hey, no problem. Friends help friends and all that,” Lance replies. He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as squeaky on the other end of the line as it does to his own ears.

“Thank you, Lance,” Shiro says again. His voice is clear and sincere, and Lance feels a familial kind of warmth spread through him all the way down to his toes.

There’s a small silence following Shiro’s words, and Lance feels it begin to tick its way into awkwardness. Having always needed to fill up the white noise, he changes subject.

“So what did you need to tell Keith, anyway?”

Shiro coughs at the end of the phone. It’s a stale noise, a placeholder for actual words.

“It’s… Kind of a private issue…”

“Oh really? You got a secret Allura thing you wanna bro-chat with Keith about? You gonna braid his hair whilst analysing what the C in ‘c u later’ means?”

“Lance,” Shiro says in warning.

“Kidding, kidding!” Lance backpedals immediately. “Seriously though. Not that I’m not dying to know where Keith goes slinking off to when he’s supposed to be in lesson, but if it’s none of my business then that’s cool. Can’t speak for Hunk, though. He’s like a rat up a drainpipe when he catches wind of gossip.”

Shiro chuckles at that, the sound hearty and genuine. “You’re right about that.”

“Alright, buddy, well I’m gonna head back now so I’ll talk to you later, cool?”

Lance would never normally cut practice. Piano was an escape for him just as much as it was a joy. But as he previously denotes, this is not a normal day for him, and Lance kinda wants to go back to the dorms and work on his composition. He wants Keith to like it, to write it the way Keith told him to. For the piano with the violin, not the other way around.

“Sure. Hey, do you wanna come meet me and Keith for lunch? We’re heading to the caff since it’s enchilada day.”

Lance grimaces, mildly thankful that Shiro can’t see his expression through the phone.

“You can call them enchiladas as much as you want, Shiro, but they’re never gonna be good food.”

“C’mon, I’m paying,” Shiro says with a laugh.

Lance clucks his tongue. “Ay, _mami_ , why you gotta play me like that? As if a broke college student could turn down free food.”

Lance can _hear_ Shiro smiling on the other end of the phone. Smug bastard. “I’ve gotta head home to drop my music off first, but yeah I’ll join you.”

Shiro tries and fails to keep the victory out of his voice. “We’re meeting at two. I’ll see you there.”

“ _Adios!_ ”

Lance ends the call with a flick of his thumb. He slips the phone into his back pocket, fleetingly gathering up the loose pages of music that he’s strewn across the piano stand to stuff them haphazardly into his bag. He closes the lid of the mini grand, tucking in the stool before heading towards the door. Lance has barely taken two steps out of the door when he bumps into something solid. He stumbles back a few paces, catching himself on the door handle before he slips off balance. He glances up to see a boy, another student, nearly a foot taller than him and at least twice his width.

“Shit, sorry!” he gasps. Seriously, the guy is built like a brick shit house. Lance thinks he’s winded himself just by knocking into him.

The student turns around, fixing Lance with a glare. He sneers down at the pianist, his upper lip curling into a sneer. Lance feels like he’s seen him before, thundering around campus like a tank. He studies music sciences, Lance is pretty sure. Pidge may have mentioned him briefly. Zeke? Zane?

Zander something?

“Watch it,” the student spits.

He takes a second to drink Lance in, his eyes sweeping over him from toe to head before he cocks his head to the side.

“You’re that pianist kid,” he states.

Lance turns his head exaggeratedly to look at the grand piano clearly visible through the small window on the door.

“Gee, what gave it away,” he deadpans.

“I’ve heard about you,” the boy continues. “Always strutting around, thinking you’re hot shit. You and that deaf kid.”

“Keith.” The name leaps out of Lance’s mouth without missing a beat, like a shield ready to defend him. “His name is Keith.”

“Whatever,” the student shrugs. “Everyone thinks he’s so amazing ‘cause he can’t hear. Like it takes a genius to be able to play a damn violin. He’s nothing special.”

Lance feels a hot flash of anger bolt up his gut.

“Well I don’t see your name on the internet anywhere for musical achievement,” he fires back. Like hell he’s going to stand here and let some prick talk shit about Keith. He didn’t know anything about what the violinist had been through.

The boy’s lip curls further in response to Lance’s outburst, giving him an ugly fold in the skin between his nose and his mouth.

“Oh please. You think he’s not going to leave you behind?”

Lance blinks at him, nonplussed.

“All those scouts are going to turn up at the showcase and be all over him like bitches in heat. You think they’re going to pay attention to some douchebag pianist who thinks he’s all that? He’s going to overshadow you. And you want to fucking _duet_ with him. Are you so desperate to be forgotten?”

Lance’s mouth has run dry.

That wasn’t true, right? Sure, Keith was talented, but Lance was talented too, wasn’t he? He was _good_ at piano, he knew he was. And yet…

And yet, there’s a small part of himself that hides like a coward in the corners of his mind, waiting for moments just like this that gave him the opportunity to sneak out and pour venom into Lance’s ear.

_He’s going to overshadow you._

The words etch themselves into Lance’s frontal lobe, jagged and deep. It makes him feel ashamed.

“Why be passive?” the student continues on, as if he hasn’t just shaken Lance’s world up like a snow globe. “I know if it were me, I’d do something to make sure there were… Complications. I’d cut that Keith kid’s puppet strings.”

_Cut his strings._

The words surface in Lance’s mind before he can stop them, and he snarls audibly in response.

“You need to stop talking,” he growls.

The other boy doesn’t seem particularly phased by Lance’s aggression, instead scoffing at him as if he were a kitten trying to act like a lion.

“Good luck at the showcase,” he leers. And then he shoulders past Lance, knocking him bodily with the side of one thick bicep. It’s enough to nearly send him sprawling again, and Lance throws out his hand at the last minute to sleep himself from toppling to the floor. The other boy doesn’t even glance back, and Lance promptly flips him off as he straightens himself up.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

The walk back to the dorms is pleasant enough. Lance can’t stop thinking about what that tall boy had said, though. The words seep through his brain like sand through a panning sieve, sluggish and gritty, catching the corners of his mind with sharp barbs and ragged edges. Lance hates himself for even thinking about sabotaging Keith. He hates that all it took was a few words from some absolute nobody to tear down his self esteem, to make doubt bloom inside him like a hungry decay. The boy had put a spot on him, and anxiety dictates that Lance was going to rub at it until it went all the way through.

 _Don’t think about it,_ he told himself sternly. _Don’t think about it. Just let it pass._

He doesn’t even realise he’s walked all the way up the stairs until he tries to open the door to his dorm and it immediately hits something behind it. Lance smacks his head into the hard wood of the door, his weight moving forward with expectation of a clear pathway.

“OW! Fuck!”

“Shit! Sorry, Lance!” Hunk’s voice drifts through the small crack in between the door and the frame.

Lance rubs absently at the small bump on his head as a series of shuffling comes from behind the door. And then suddenly it’s swinging wide open, Hunk’s smiling face popping out from the hallway, Rover cradled delicately in his large arms.

“Hey, dude! Sorry, I left Rover behind the door. Didn’t think you’d be back for a while since you said you were practising with Keith.”

“Yeah, he had to meet Shiro for something,” Lance replies, dropping his bag as soon as he takes a step inside. “I’m meeting them in like thirty minutes for lunch. Shiro’s paying.”

“Shiro’s buying you lunch?” Hunk repeats as he hefts Rover a little higher in his arms. “Did you save Allura from a burning building or something?”

“Like Allura couldn’t save herself and carry five other people out over her shoulder.”

“Touche.”

“So, how’s Rover coming along?” Lance asks, opening the fridge to rummage for scraps.

“Top shelf on the right,” Hunks supplies helpfully.

Lance follows his friend’s directions, finding a small Tupperware of cookies tucked in the corner of the fridge. He straightens up, popping the lid on the box and swiftly cramming a whole cookie into his mouth.

“Don’t ruin your appetite before lunch,” Hunks warns, like the mother hen he is.

“I’m a growing boy!” Lance argues, stuffing a bite of a second cookie into his mouth before he’s even finished the first.

Hunk arches one eyebrow at his friend but doesn’t comment further. Instead, he moves on to talking about his latest project.

“Rover’s not too bad. Pidge has been helping me out with some of the software stuff so it’s coming out easier than I thought. I just hope I’m gonna have him done in time for the submission deadline.”

Lance winces. The science kids always had tighter deadlines. Lance didn’t envy them one bit.

“You’ll get it done in time, no worries man. You know stress too much. It’s bad for your skin.”

“I know, but like. Anxiety?”

“Big mood.”

“Constant mood.”

The two boys share a nod of mutual understanding, their conversation lapsing into silence. Lance hands Hunk a cookie, and he takes it, munching thoughtfully as he rubs his chin.

“How’d the practice with Keith go? Did you manage to not insult him for like, a whole minute?”

“Hey,” Lance points an accusing finger at Hunk, a cookie still clasped in the rest of his hand. “Me and Keith are getting on just fine, thanks. And he’s actually super chill?”

Hunk rolls his eyes so hard, Lance can hear them rattling around in his skull. “Laaaaaance,” Hunk draws out the name so that it has multiple syllables. “That’s what literally everyone has been telling you. Since day one.”

“Yeah, but he’s still like, my nemesis or whatever.”

“He’s like my nemesis or whatever. You should get that on your headstone. You know. When you inevitably die from having to keep your massive crush a secret.” Hunk quips. “Most committed statement of rivalry I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Lance shrugs, chewing on his cookie.

“We can be friends and still be rivals. You know? Lance and Keith, _neck and neck._ ”  
“Neck and neck?” Hunk replies. “You mean like a race? Are you guys racing? What is this uuuh- is this like a race to finish school or…?

“Something like that,” Lance shrugs.

Hunk scratches one ear thoughtfully whilst reaching for another cookie. It’s the ear that Shay convinced him to pierce last year. How Hunk had ever let her talk him into it, Lance would never know, but he assumed it had everything to do with his giant crush on her at the time. Eight shots of tequila and a whole lot of convincing later had seen Shay dipping a needle in vodka as Lance held Hunk’s earlobe between two cubes of ice. The stud had lasted all of a week before Hunk had begged lance to take it out. Now all that was left was a slightly crooked mark that Pidge insisted looked like Elvis’s signature quiff. She’d called Hunk “The King” for a solid month before getting bored and forgetting about it.

“It sounds like something else to me. Like pulling a girl’s pigtails in the playground because you secretly like her.”

“Except I don’t secretly like Keith,” Lance points out.

Hunk doesn’t meet his eyes. He just raises his eyebrows and nods his head whilst taking another, decidedly larger, bite of his cookie.

Lance scoffs.

“I don’t,”

“Uh huh.”

“Hunk,” Lance levels his friend with an even stare. “I don’t secretly like Keith.”

“Okay, dude. Whatever you say,” Hunk says, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying – It’s not the worst thing in the world if you do. Keith’s a good guy.”

Lance cocks his head to the side, considering for a second.

Hunk is right – Keith is a nice guy. Lance hadn’t really given him the benefit of the doubt before they’d met, too consumed with irrational hatred for the guy. And okay, if he was being honest, an eyedropper or two of jealousy. From concentrate.

“Yeah but I mean he’s… You know, he’s… He’s _Keith!_ ” Lance grapples for words, his mind wiping blank like a whiteboard.

Hunk shoots him a pitying look.

“Jeez, it’s like high school all over again. I remember the first time you realised you liked a boy. Stefan Tomlinson took his top off in the locker room and then shot you this huge grin and suddenly everything was all ‘but what if I don’t _reeeaaaally_ like him? What if I just think he’s cool?’ for about three weeks.”

Lance flicks a crumb at Hunk in petty revenge, not that the big guy notices it at all. Instead, he flexes his shoulders, stuffing the last of his cookie into his mouth.

“Stefan Tomlinson was exotic white bread. Looks pretty but when you bite into it you realise it’s nothing special.

“He let you bite him?” Hunk asks innocently. Lance flips him off, which is answered with a wicked cackle from the larger boy.

“Well as much as I’d love to stay here and shoot the breeze about how much you _don’t_ have a giant gay crush on Keith,” Hunk begins, ignoring the petulant glare Lance sends him. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting a certain violinist and his brother in like, five minutes?”

Lance’s head whips around to stare at the clock mounted crookedly on the kitchenette wall.

“Crap!” he gasps.

Vaulting across the small space, he gathers up his bag in on hand, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he hops towards the door.

“Oh by the way!” Hunk raises his voice to be heard over Lance’s sudden shuffling. “Lucia called earlier. She said to tell you to call her back as soon as possible.”

“I’ll call her back tonight,” Lance calls over his shoulder.

“She said _as soon as possible_ ,” Hunk stresses. “She sounded weird, dude. I really think you should-“

“Yeah yeah ASAP, okay!” Lance interrupts. I’m probably gonna head to the practice rooms after lunch so go on ahead to the library, okay?” Lance yanks the front door open, calling to Hunk over his shoulder.

Hunk responds with a lazy wave, a knowing glint in his eye that Lance doesn’t have time to dissect.

He makes his way down the stairs with long strides, quickly marching across the campus towards the college cafeteria. It’s busy when he arrives, throngs of students either queuing to pay for their meals or piled up in front the small kitchenettes that line one side of the walls to order their food. Lance gaze casts a broad net, sweeping over the sea of bobbing heads in search of a very particular dark shade. A shock of white catches his view, and Lance does a double take as he finally spots Shiro. The older boy looks up from where he’s sat at a table, and lifts his prosthetic arm to wave at Lance. The metal glints slightly in the sun streaming in from the cafeteria windows, and the reflection bounces off the dark mop of hair sat in front of him.

_Keith._

The violinist turns as he notices his brother waving, raven hair shining in the light as his head whips around. Violet irises capture Lance from all the way across the cafeteria, a lavender net that he’s caught in. Lance feels a bit like a rabbit in headlights, a bolt of _something_ shuddering through his veins, igniting his fight or flight reflex.

And then Keith grins, his smile lighting up his entire face. Lance spots the dimple in his cheek, a tiny pucker that’s just _adorable._ Keith even brushes his hair out of his eyes a bit, his cheeks sporting a light dusting of pink, as his smile turns bashful.

Lance’s heart does a weird little acrobatic move in his chest, just like that time in high school when Johnny Binder had told Lance that he liked the way he played piano, and then shot Lance this really pretty smile that had made Lance-

Oh.

_Oh no._

Lance’s smile faltered, one side drooping a little like his muscles had lost a handle on the pulley. He hiked the corner of his lips up again determinedly; intent on not letting Keith see whatever revelation he’d just come to.

Luckily, Keith is turning away, turning back to his brother. Shiro stands, signing something quickly to Keith before making his way over to where Lance stands by the food queue.

“Hi, Lance, thanks for joining us,” he says easily.

“I should be thanking you,” Lance responds, quick as a flash. “You’re the one treating me.”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten,” Shiro laughs. “Pick whatever you like.”

Lance gives Shiro his best shit-eating grin before turning toward the food aisle to read the hanging signs that display the day’s menu. He chews his lip thoughtfully.

“I want noodles,” he announces after a moment. Lance turns back to Shiro, a triumphant smile on his face. Shiro just nods sagely before steeping up next to Lance so that their shoulders are brushing as they wait to be served.

“So…” Shiro breaks the silence. “Keith said you’re practising with him?”

Lance nods, humming quietly as he kept his eyes trained on the staff loading noodles and sauce onto his plate.

“For the showcase?”

“Yeah, Keith kinda…” Lance hesitates. He didn’t want to say _stole._ “He found my composition piece and wrote some notes on it, so we decided to do it as a duet.”

Shiro smiles amiably, his the steel of his eyes softening into mercury.

“I’ll bet Keith is thrilled. He really admires your piano playing.”

Lance almost snaps his neck he twisted his head round so fast.

“He _what?_ ”

Shiro looks somewhat amused, though he thankfully supresses his laughter the try and preserve Lance’s pride.

“He’d heard about you before coming to the university and I mentioned that you were a friend. I showed him some of your performances online and he was seriously impressed with your technique.”

Lance splutters. Keith had… Been watching _him?_ Lance’s eyes involuntarily seek out the violinist, and he startles when his eyes lock onto Keith’s from where the other boy is sat at the table. For a beat, Lance’s heart stills in his chest, his breathe catching in his throat. Keith is watching him warily, his indigo eyes flicking between Shiro and Lance as if he’s trying to read their minds. Lance has an inkling suspicion that Keith was probably hoping he and Shiro weren’t having this exact conversation. He’s scowling, lips pursed as a pinch appears between his eyebrows. And all Lance can think about is how Keith liked his piano playing before they even _met._ And Lance was a dick to him when they finally did meet. And now they were playing a duet together. And Keith looks fucking stunning in the streaks of sunlight that pierce the cafeteria window, illuminating him like an art nouveau.

Something behind Keith catches Lance’s attention, and he shifts his focus to see the small commotion happening just over his shoulder.

The student Lance bumped into earlier is sat directly behind Keith, half-turned and hunched over, watching the violinist with cold calculating eyes. Lance involuntarily shudders. It’s like the guy is watching Keith as if he’s a mouse about to walk into a trap; with a sick sense of curiosity. One of the boys sat next to him, shorter but just as broad, leans into to mutter something in his ear as he points at Keith, and the guy laughs. It’s a cruel sound, cutting through the hubbub of the cafeteria like a machete. A hot wash of fierce protectiveness surges through Lance, and he feels the hairs on his arm stand on end as he physically bristles in retaliation.

But he’s not prepared for what happens next. The lady serving him has just handed him his bowl of food. Lance takes it absently, eyes still trained heavily on the exchange happening behind a completely oblivious Keith.

“Shiro,” Lance muses. “Who is that guy sat behind Keith? He’s on Pidge’s course right? Zane or something?”

Shiro’s eyes flicker over to follow Lance’s line of sight, and his face darkens with a scowl.

“Zach,” he replies tersely. “That guy’s a psycho. According to Pidge, he conducts all sorts of experiments to do with pitch and how it affects living organisms. I heard a rumour that he managed to kill a frog by finding the right frequency. Pidge said the animal was writhing horribly before it just dropped dead.”

Lance’s stomach does a horrible flip at the mental image. All at once, Zach gave him the creeps. And not in a fun “let’s watch a horror movie” kind of way. More in the way that made him feel as if Zack would test on human subjects if he got the chance.

It’s along this exact train of thought when Zach stands up, dragging in each hand one of the metal cafeteria trays that everyone collects at the start of the queue. Plastic cutlery clatters to the floor, but the noise is lost as Zach lifts both hands and slams the two trays together as hard as he possibly can right behind Keith’s head.

Keith flinches, his head instinctively ducking as the gust of wind from the velocity ruffles his hair. Lance has already taken three strides towards the commotion, the bowl of noodles in his hand dropping to the ground with a resulting _smash_ as the bowl shatters long before Keith even turns around look too at Zach, his eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“I thought you were deaf,” Zach sneers. And wow, he really is massive.

Lance has drawn up to him in about two seconds flat before he realises that the guy could probably squash him like a bug on a windshield.

Not that it matters. Blind fury is colouring Lance’s eyes red, and without thinking he grabs a handful of Zach’s shirt, yanking him forwards as much as he can. Which, given his lean arms, isn’t all that much. It gets the point across, though. Zach’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he narrows them down at Lance.

 _“What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?!”_ Lance hisses.

He’s spitting venom, so outraged at the cruelty and injustice of the other boy’s actions.

Zach just sneers at him, reaching up with one hand to pluck Lance off of him as if he’s nothing more than a piece of lint. He makes sure it hurts, though, pinching Lance’s wrist painfully between his fingers as he rolls his grip over the muscles. Lance winces involuntarily, quickly schooling his features back into a glower.

“Deaf people can’t hear,” Zach says nonchalantly. As if Lance is dumb. “He shouldn’t react to noise. He’s probably faking this whole thing so that people think he’s special.”

Zach turns to look over Lance’s shoulder. To look at Keith.

“When really he’s just a _freak._ ”

Lance span around to look at Keith, and his heart cracks at what he sees.

It’s gone in a second, replaced by a weathered scowl, one that’s been practised and refined until Keith can slip it on like an old coat. But for a glimmer of a moment, Keith’s face is in despair.

It makes Lance ache deep in his heart, and in that moment he just feels so _furious._ So angry for what Keith has to endure from bullies like Zach, so filled with righteousness that he just wants to clear Keith’s path of worries and problems like a battering ram.

Lance turns back to Zach, fist curled, arm drawing back in preparation. He’s 90% sure he’s going to shatter his wrist by punching that jaw but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because Zach would deserve it, because Keith was worthy of respect, because nobody, _NOBODY_ deserved to be treated as any less because of something that they can’t help.

Lance twists his torso, pushing everything that he can through his shoulder, his elbow, out to the sharp juts of his knuckles. And then there’s a hand on his chest, pushing him roughly backwards. Lance stumbles, catching the heel of his foot with the toe of his opposing shoe, and a pair of gloved hands wrap around his chest to steady him. Lance turns his head to look up at Keith, seeing an unreadable expression on the other boy’s face.

“Lance, that’s enough!”

Shiro’s voice is hard and commanding, and Lance stops immediately, like a dog told to sit. He goes limp in Keith’s hold, letting his weight fall back into the shorter boy as Shiro turns towards Zach.

“I think you had better leave,” Shiro says coolly. “Before this gets back the principal.”

Zach wipes his nose with the back of his hand, dragging his eyes over Shiro’s defensive stance with an unimpressed look on his face. He’s bigger than Shiro, sure, but Lance would say smart money was on the guy with the prosthetic arm.

“It’s his word against mine,” Zach leers.

“Oh I don’t think so,” Shiro replies calmly. “Or have you forgotten where you are?”

He gestures with one hand to the entirety of the cafeteria. The hall is completely silent, every single pair of eyes turned towards the ruckus going on between the two human mountains.

Zach turns to take in the numerous witnesses watching him before turning back to Shiro with a dark glare.

“Oh go ahead,” he growls. “Alfor is soft. All I’ll get is a slap on the wrist.”

“And a punch in the teeth,” Lance snaps aggressively.

He moves lunge forwards, fists clenched and teeth bared. But Keith’s arms around his chest hold him back. Lance struggles against his grip, trying to use his minor amount of extra height to his advantage. It does little to help, and Lance belatedly remembers that Keith is almost as fit as his brother.

<“Keith, take Lance outside,”> Shiro orders.

Zach scoffs as he signs out his sentence, turning around to shoot a look at his jeering posse. Lance feels Keith tug him a little bit, and he shifts his feet so that he’s actually standing properly. He glares at Zach, refusing to move as the two stare each other down. Keith releases his hold on Lance’s torso to wrap one arm around his bicep, giving him a much more gentle pull this time. Lance tears his eyes away from Zach to look at Keith, and he realises that the shorter boy is staring determinedly at his feet, inky dark bangs falling into his face, obscuring his expression.

Shiro had said Keith was private, that he didn’t like attention. And this, being in the centre of the cafeteria with literally every student present staring at them… This was the opposite of private. So Lance lets Keith take him by the arm, steering him quietly past the crowd of onlookers and out of the cafeteria.

Lance throws one last look over his shoulder to see Shiro and Zach still surveying each other. He can’t tell if they’re sizing each other up of if they’re agreeing to move on, but either way, it gives Lance a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Keith doesn’t say a word as he leads Lance across the campus, the curtain of hair covering his eyes remaining in place as he strides purposefully around the practice buildings. Lance steals a glance at him from where he’s half a step behind. The only indication at all that Keith has been affected by what happened is the barely concealed twist to his mouth. Like he’s trying not to cry.

The thought sparks anger in Lance once again, but he quashes it with a will of steel. Keith wants to get away, and so Lance is going to let him take them as far away as he needs.

It’s only when they start approaching one of the campus dorms that Lance realises where they’re going.

Keith is taking Lance back to his dorm.

Lance remains quiet as Keith wordlessly leads him though the small lobby and up the stairs. He only lets go of Lance’s arm once they’re outside his door to fumble in his pocket for his key card. Pressing the thin piece of plastic to the receiver on the wall, the door unlocks with a soft beep, and Keith leads Lance inside.

It’s only once the door has shut fully that Keith let’s out a shaky breath. His shoulders slump heavily with the exhale, and he leans back into the wood of the door, sliding down it into a sitting position. It’s almost as if his legs have given out underneath him. Lance crouches in front of him immediately.

“Keith?” he asks, uncertainty creeping into his veins.

Keith draws his knees up, propping his elbows on them as he drops his head into his hands. His fingers slot through his hair as he shuts his eyes and lets out another deep sigh.

“Hey…” Lance reaches out tentatively, worried about startling the other boy.

Keith looks… Fragile. It’s not a good look on him, Lance thinks. Like seeing an almighty lion felled by an arrogant poacher. His fingers skim the exposed strip of Keith’s wrist where his jacket has moved up his arm, right where his skin meets his fingerless gloves. Lance traces the line up the side of his hand until he can wiggle the tips of two fingers underneath Keith’s palm.

Carefully, he pries one hand away from Keith’s face.

“Hey,” he murmurs again.

Lance reaches out, softly, so softly, brushing Keith bangs to the side. Keith chooses that moment to flick his gaze up at the pianist, and Lance feels his heart crack just a little bit more.

Keith’s eyes are shining, glittering with unshed tears as the skin across his nose begins to turn pink.

“Oh Keith,” Lance breathes.

Keith turns his head to the side, stubbornly trying to hide his upset.

“Keith that guy was a douchebag,” Lance says.

He’s sure Keith can’t hear him since he’s not reading his lips, but it makes Lance feel better to say it out loud anyway.

“A serious fucking douchebag. Like grade-A dickwad. Do you hear me?”

Lance winces. Poor choice of words.

“Keith.”

Lance reaches out with his other hand, slipping his fingers underneath Keith’s chin to turn the other boy’s face towards him. He hadn’t even realised how close together they are sitting until he notices Keith’s face only inches from his own. Lance holds his breath. Keith’s eyes are endless pools of indigo, flecked with silver and blue. The moon over the ocean waves. Keith’s breathing hitches, and his gaze flickers down to Lance’s lips before shooting back up to capture his eyes again.

Slowly, he releases his other hand from his head, stretching his fingers across the short distance between them to brush the pad of his thumb over Lance’s cheekbone.

He watches Lance, uncertain, nervous, _wanting_. Everything that Lance feels, he sees reflected in those grey purple eyes of Keith’s. Which is why when the raven-haired boy tilts his chin up almost imperceptibly, Lance mirrors him, moving forward as slowly as a glacier. He watches as Keith’s eyes flutter closed and he waits…

Waits…

And then Lance’s phone rings, and he curses every Hollywood trope that encouraged the stars to align for something like this to happen.

Lance turns away, dropping is hand from Keith’s hair to pull his phone out of his pocket.

“Fuck!” Keith exclaims.

Lance spares him nothing more than a glance as he checks the caller ID on his screen. The name _Lucia (Evil)_ flashes up on his phone, and Lance actually _hisses._

 _Even when she’s not here, she’s cockblocking me,_ he seethes silently.

“Shit, Lance,” Keith says, voice rising with panic.

Lance turns his attention back on Keith to see the other boy shrinking away from him, curling in on himself as if he can disappear by taking up as little space as possible.

“I was reading this all wrong, wasn’t I?” Keith asks. He sounds miserable. “Was I reading this wrong?” He sounds hopeful.

And then it clocks Lance in the head like a baseball.

_Keith didn’t hear his phone ring._

Which is why Lance lobs the small device to the side, not even sparing it a quick look to see where he has surely shattered the screen with the force of his throw. He catches Keith’s face between his hands, ignoring the look of utter bewilderment the violinist gives him. He pushes past all the worry and the anger and fear, all of it. He shoves all those messy emotions to the back of his mind with raw clarity as he takes the leap, leans forward.

And kisses Keith like his life depends on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I really wanted to set up Lucia in this chapter because she's important and I will defend the headcanon that Lance has a twin sister until my dying day.
> 
> Also, Keith is soft. So soft. Literally, wrap this boy in a blanket cuz HE NEEDS SOME MILK.


	13. Stringendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stringendo - gradually getting faster.
> 
> The aftermath of the kiss, Lance gets a surprise visitor, and there's somehow a lot of UV paint involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."
> 
>  
> 
> _If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING._
> 
>  
> 
> I wanna blame wittyy_name entirely for the length of this chapter. Seriously, being around her has such a weird effect on your chapter length. It's like your become an achievement hunter - Achieved Friendship™ with wittyy, you have now unlocked 10k+ chapters!
> 
> I was realllllly nervous about this chapter because it took me so long to finish and I feel like I rushed bit of it and I'm sure I could poke and prod and pull at it until it's a completely different beast but then it would probably lose all of its raw charm so I hope you enjoy it regardless.
> 
> Also, I wanna say thank you so much to all of you lovely commenters - your comments give my life and make me so happy to continue writing this story. I hope you all continue to enjoy the fic!

The second their mouths clash Keith stiffens at the contact, his body going as rigid as a board underneath Lance’s lips. Lance presses his mouth against Keith’s harder in response, his eyes squeezing tight shut because he can’t really believe he’s just done this. But there’s no going back now so it’s either fight or flight, and dammit Keith’s lips feel so warm against his that he’s going to fight for a reaction with all the reckless bravado he has.

Lance feels a whole heartbeat pass, the slow thud in his chest feeling like the hit of a gavel, announcing his sentence. Twelve years for impulsive decisions, 6 on probation if Keith doesn’t punch his teeth in. Then another hit follows, beating hard against the inside of his ribcage like it’s trying to break through. By the third, Keith’s shoulders inch down from his ears, nervous and hesitant, like he’s testing the water before finally his entire body relaxes into Lance’s hold in one swift movement. The taller boy feels him go slack, Keith’s jaw resting a little heavier in the palm of Lance’s hands as he lets out a shaky breath through his nose. Lance shifts minimally, one leg scooting a little closer so that Keith can shuffle a bit up the door before he finally tilts his head and moves his lips to slot easier against Lance’s.

Lance feels the pad of Keith’s thumb drift across his skin from where it had settled high on his cheekbone, coming to settle somewhere underneath his jaw as the fingers of Keith’s hand curl hesitantly around the back of his neck.

It’s a slightly awkward position, Lance tipping forward somewhat precariously on his knees in front of Keith as he tries to brace his weight and keep from crushing the other boy’s head against the door with his own face.

But Lance holds on as long as he can, because the sigh Keith lets out catches on the back of his throat and twists it’s way out of his mouth in a hushed, raspy moan. Heat floods through Lance’s chest like a furnace, and unbidden his tongue slips out to swipe across the tip of Keith’s, fuelled by pure instinctual lust.

Keith jerks his head back at the foreign feeling, inadvertently smacking the door in the exact way Lance had been trying to avoid. He let’s his weight rock back to sit on his heels as he blinks hazily at Keith.

The other boy looks… A mess, to be honest.

His eyes are still glassy with the fading of unshed tears, his face is flushed and his hair is ruffled from where he’d run his hands through it. He’s so beautiful.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, voice scratchy. Keith clears his throat and tries again. “Sorry, you startled me.”

Lance startled himself if he’s being truthful. But… He raises his eyebrows in silent question.

_Okay?_

Keith huffs out a breath. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s not quite a sigh, either. He stares at Lance with a look the pianist can’t parse, and a pregnant pause settles over the two of them. Lance can feel insecurity whispering into his veins like poisonous smoke as precious seconds tick by, and he tries to tamp down on it with a practiced hand. It doesn’t help that Keith is staring at him with those bottomless indigo pits he has for eyes, his face betraying no emotion other than quiet surprise. Lance is hyper aware of how he’s shuffling on his knees. It’s made all the worse by the _fact_ that he’s aware of it: It feels like the more he’s trying to make himself stop, the more obvious it’s becoming that he’s twitchy.

A few more seconds pass by, punctuated by the clock on the wall, each tick a gunshot firing into the silence of the kitchenette.

Then slowly, so slowly, one corner of Keith’s mouth quirks up, and it’s like someone has lit a beacon to chase away all the darkness that lingers in the corners of Lance’s mind.

Because just like that, Keith goes from being completely indifferent to amused, adorable, mildly incredulous, and Lance feels the stony walls he’d used to surround his heart chip and flake away just a little bit more.

“Alright,” Keith chuckles. “Okay. So I wasn’t reading this wrong.”

Lance can feel the grin spreading across his own face, a mirror of Keith’s.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Ummmm…..”

Like a badly timed joke, his phone immediately starts ringing again. Lance’s head whips towards the source of the noise as his eyes seek out the device. Keith’s head follows a second later as he follows Lance’s line of sight. The screen lights up insistently as the phone vibrates loudly against the bottom of the counter, and Lance spies Lucia’s name plastered across it in bold luminous letters. He lets out a heavy sigh as he leans over to pick it up.

Honestly, it may have been more graceful for him to stand up and retrieve his phone, but Lance is a lazy teenager. And like a lazy teenager he opts to stay on his knees as he turns and stretches out to grab his phone, weight braced on one hand, one foot popping up behind him to balance himself. His fingers graze the smooth side of the phone, and he pitches forward with a stifled groan, the kind that pulls out of your lungs like elastic, to snatch it off the floor. When Lance turns his head, he sees Keith’s eyes roaming the length of his body, stretched out like a cat almost completely in Keith’s lap. Lance has one second to feel embarrassed, one second in which Keith’s eyes slip to the small sliver of skin visible where his shirt has shifted up his back, exposing his taught stomach before their eyes lock like magnets. Keith’s face turns an alarming shade of red, and he slaps his hand haphazardly over his mouth, index finger slipping over the bridge of his nose as he shifts his eyes away.

It’s stupid cute.

Keith’s eyes drift back for a split second, and Lance seizes the opportunity to waggle his eyebrows ridiculously at the other boy. And if he happens to swing his hips in Keith’s face just a little bit then honestly he can blame that on the precarious way he’s balanced. It’s worth it to see the tips of Keith’s ears go as red as his cheeks as he tries vainly to hide a smile that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As if in protest of being ignored, the phone buzzes loudly in Lance’s hand again, and he finally shifts back onto his heels again. Lance holds the screen up to Keith, just to show him who’s calling, before holding up three fingers and mouthing, “third call”. Keith nods his understanding, and gestures vaguely for Lance to answer the call. Lance bites the inside of his cheek as he prepares for an earful and quickly swipes his finger across the screen to answer to call.

“Hola, Lucia.”

“¡Tiende el teléfono la próxima vez, idiota!”

Lucia’s voice is like a can opener, snapping down the phone to crunch Lance’s eardrum clean through. Lance winces audibly, ignoring the click of his sister’s tongue he receives in response to the hiss that escapes through his teeth.

“¿Acaso necesitas algo?”

He doesn’t mean to sound irritated, really he doesn’t. But Keith is peeking up at him through those gorgeously thick lashes and Lance is suddenly overcome with the feeling that Lucia is interrupting something extremely important.

“¿Crees que esa es manera de hablarle a tu hermana mayor?”

 _“Older by two minutes, idiota,”_ Lance hisses vehemently down the phone. Lucia just cackles at her small victory.

Lance hears a soft chuckle, and glances up again to see Keith smirking at him. Which is incredibly distracting. It takes Lance a solid ten seconds to realise that Lucia is talking in rapid fire Spanish at him down the other end of the line.

“Uhhhh…” he fumbles, trying to pick up the tail end of a sentence.

“– tomó como cinco horas pero valió la pena sólo para ver – Ah, mierda, lo siento. ¿Cachaste todo eso? ¿Andas con un mal día??” Lucia cuts herself off quickly.

“No no no estoy bien sólo un tanto… ocupado”

Lance trails off as something rough and warm grazes the hand he’s rested atop his knees, and he looks down to see Keith running the calloused tips of his finger over the valleys of Lance’s knuckles. He pauses as he gets to the pinky to try and wiggle his digits underneath Lance’s. The taller boy lifts his hand slightly to accommodate and Keith immediately weaves his fingers with Lance’s, slotting them together like they were built that way. A quick glance up risks Lance very nearly dropping his phone.  
Keith is gazing at him with a soft smile, so quiet and sweet it’s almost tender, and he nervously brushes back some of the hair that’s shifted forward over his shoulder. When Lance blinks at him in a stupor, Keith bites his lip and looks away.

It’s fucking _adorable._ Lance almost zones out on Lucia for the second time.

“¿Acaso tienes a alguien por ahí contigo? You know, I don’t wanna know,” Lucia says plainly in English. “Actually scratch that, yes I do. Get over to your place now. Right now, Lance. ¡Ahora!”

Lance pulls the phone away from his ear long enough to frown at the receiver before placing it gingerly back against his ear. He didn’t understand why he needed to be at his dorm, but a sudden flashback to the last time he was on a phone call to Lucia springs forth in his mind and has him humming in consent.

“¡Bien, Jesús, ya me voy! Pesada.”

Lucia hangs up without another word, leaving nothing but a dial tone as a farewell.

Lance drops the phone with a sigh, wiping one hand down his face with an exaggerated groan. Keith’s there to catch his hand before it can drop into his lap, his worn fingers tugging lightly at Lance’s wrist, a gentle coax for him to look up.

“Everything okay?” he murmurs.

And oh, he looks really lovely like that. Eyes wide and inquisitive, with just a touch of worry framing their edges. It has Lance’s smile cracking out in all its wide glory again.

“Yeah, it’s just my sister.”

Lance doesn’t know how to sign the sentence so he makes the gesture for “sister” before rolling his eyes and shooting Keith a lopsided grin. Keith seems to understand perfectly because he grins back, his thumb rubbing absently over Lance’s knuckles again.

“Siblings,” Keith murmurs quietly. It’s a simple word, but it rings with a familiar blend of fondness and exasperation that Lance resonates with.

He can feel the lingering tension that’s been hanging in the air beginning to dissolve, and Lance finally allows himself to relax, the slight tightness in his muscles loosening like worn rubber. Keith takes a deep breath, scrubbing at one eye with his free hand, and Lance takes a moment to really take the other boy in.

Keith still looks a little ragged, he notes, a flush high on his cheeks, and weariness hanging on the framework of his muscles that’s likely come from the wrought emotions which drove them out of the cafeteria.

Lance feels a flash of anger at the memory, his face reflexively screwing up with distaste. Keith catches sight of his frown, raising one eyebrow in silent question.

<“Sorry,”> Lance mutters. “I was just thinking about that guy…”

Something flashes in Keith’s eyes, surprise evident in his features before is disappears, fast as a snapshot. His face shuts down, all that warm softness that he looks at Lance with flattening and sharpening out into hard edges as he averts his gaze with a scowl.

“Hey,” Lance cuts in immediately. When Keith doesn’t respond, he slots two fingers under the boy’s chin to turn his head back where Lance can see him. Lance drops Keith’s hand in favour of brushing the other boy’s dark bangs away from his eyes, forcing them to look at him. Lance isn’t going to allow Keith to run away and throw himself a pity party, dammit. Not whilst he’s here to help.

“Hey,” Lance breathes, tempering his own anger at the situation. “You don’t believe what he said, do you?”

Keith chews his lip silently, and Lance briefly wonders if it’s to stop it from wobbling. His eyes are started to look shiny again, and his chin jerks as he automatically tries to hide his face. Lance doesn’t let him, keeping his fingers gently but firmly under Keith’s jaw.

“Keith,” he says, voice unwavering. “That guy was an asshole. A real fucking _cabron. Please_ don’t think about what he said. He’s wrong.”

Keith shifts his gaze down to his hands. He starts picking somewhat aggressively at his cuticles, jaw flexing as he grits his teeth. Lance doesn’t want to drop his hand, doesn’t want to let Keith’s hair fall back into his eyes because then he might miss something, might not see some important flicker in Keith’s gaze that could help tell him what’s going through the other boy’s head. But he does, because if Keith picks at his skin anymore he’s going to tear it, and Lance will not allow those beautiful fingers to become bloodied because of something some jackass said.

He snags Keith’s hand again, lacing their fingers together with a small reassuring squeeze. Keith manages to give him a ghost of a smile, a small twitch of his mouth in appreciation of the action.

“I just… I don’t think he’s _right,_ ” Keith begins. His voice is raspy, like he’s trying to swallow a knot of tears, and it tugs sharply somewhere behind Lance’s sternum.

“I just think that maybe there’s some truth to what he said.”

Lance opens his mouth to gasp, not only indignation, but in outrage. He opens his mouth to swear to his mama, abuelita, and whatever deity is listening right now that there isn’t a single grain of truth in any criticism of Keith’s musicality.

But he stops short, looking at Keith and the way he worries at his lip, they way he clutches Lance’s hand just a little tighter as he restlessly tries to shake his hair into his eyes.

Keith doesn’t need someone loudly defending his honour with a series of flailing hand gestures and noisy insults when he can’t even _hear_ it.

So Lance rocks back on his heels, careful not to let go of Keith’s hand, as he folds his feet underneath and out in front of him. He shifts forward on his butt, finally letting go of Keith’s chin to pull one of the violinist’s legs forward, ignoring the grunt of protest he receives in response. Lance loops his legs over Keith’s, shuffling a little until his feet rest by Keith’s hips and vice versa. Keith just watches him, his face showing curiosity though his eyes remain wary.

Once Lance has settled, the two of them are sat barely a foot apart, the space between them impossibly more intimate than it had been before. He gives Keith a serious look, one he usually reserves for his niece and nephew, before lifting one hand to confidently sign.

_ <”Why?”> _

Keith’s eyebrows lift a little at the question, clearly taken by surprise at Lance’s dramatic shift in attitude, but he holds his gaze for a moment before letting a long breath out through his nose.

“Because in some ways, he _is_ right. I can’t hear the music.”

Lance mulls over Keith’s response for a moment, his thumb rubbing soothingly over the soft skin of Keith’s hand. When the other boy turns away, this time Lance lets him, allowing Keith some respite from the microscope Lance has got him under. He drops Keith’s hand again, lifting both of his to loop around the other boy’s shoulders. It’s a daring move, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by the violinist. Keith stills a little as Lance composes his arms around the juncture of Keith’s neck like a scarf, fingers grazing the nape of the shorter boys neck as his forearms rest on protruding collarbones.

“Keith,” Lance says softly, giving the boy’s hair a gentle tug to get his attention. Keith peers back at him through the shadowy darkness of his tresses. He looks so small that Lance has to physically fight the primal instinct telling him to wrap this boy up in a massive cosy blanket and hug him until all the bad feelings go away.

“Keith,” Lance says again. “What _can_ you hear?”

Keith ponders the question for a moment, his eyes drifting upwards, unfocused as he considers his answer.

“Put you fingers in your ears,” he says suddenly.

“Ew.” Lance makes a face at the instruction, but Keith just rolls his eyes, pulling Lance’s arms from around his neck and ignoring the resulting pout from the pianist.

“Just do it,” he huffs. There’s a warmth to his tone though, and Lance feels a small triumph at having at least chipped away a little of Keith’s bad mood.

He complies with the order, popping the tips of each index finger into his ears.

“Deeper,” Keith commands.

“Kinky,” Lance says with a wink.

Keith smacks him on the head, grinning when Lance barks out a laugh.

Lance shoves his fingers a little deeper into his ears, as far as he dares without rupturing something, grunting at the discomfort.

“Now, what do you hear?” Keith asks.

Or rather, Lance thinks he asks. The digits blocking his ear canal muffle the question thickly, the noise sounding like Keith’s talking to him through a brick wall. Lance only understands what he’s said because he was looking at Keith’s face at the time, and his lips more or less shaped the words.

“Uh, not much.”

Keith nods solemnly, lifting his free hand to tap at his hearing aids. Lance makes an incredulous sound, but it comes out as more of a whine, the noise vibrating through his skull uncomfortably with the intrusion of his fingers. It’s like he can feel the sound lodging itself on the back of his tongue. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

He carefully removes his fingers from his ears, wiping the tips on his jeans as he looks at Keith sadly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Keith says sharply. “Please.”

There’s a twang of desperation in his tone, one that has Lance dropping his expression immediately.

He signs a quick _sorry_ , watching as Keith’s bristles smooth out a bit.

“That’s what it’s like for you?” Lance asks softly.

He’s careful to school his features away from pity, but it’s difficult. Lance can’t imagine playing his beloved piano and feeling as if he were hearing it two rooms away, rather than right under his fingers. He can imagine the frustration he would feel at literally being able to touch the music, and yet feeling like it was out of his reach at the same time.

Keith gives him a wry smile, running one hand through his hair.

“Like that, but stronger. It’s like I can hear an impression of the sound, or like someone’s holding pillows over my ears. The hearing aids help a little, but everything just sounds out of focus.”

That’s why I just thought… Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not a real musician.”

Lance doesn’t know how to help. He wants to say something, _something,_ that will show Keith that he understands.

But he doesn’t understand, and that’s the problem. Lance realises with a dawning clarity that he cannot understand how Keith feels because he has no concept of having impaired hearing, and his mind shoots off in wild search of anything he can use as a point of reference, anything he can compromise with. He chews the inside of his cheek for a second as his brain flicks through anything and everything that may be relevant. It’s like someone’s thumbing through an incredibly chunky filing cabinet in his head; pages flipping round like a carousel before-

“Can you feel vibrations?”

He blurts the question out without a second thought, the words tumbling from his lips like lead pellets. For a second, Lance holds his breath; terrified he’s asked something incredibly stupid. But blessedly, Keith smiles at him eyes lighting up a touch as he brushes his hair away from his face.

“Yeah I can.”

Lance grins back just as an idea sparks at the back of his mind. Slowly, he takes Keith’s hand, lifting it and guiding it calmly towards himself, giving Keith an opportunity to pull away. He doesn’t, instead allowing Lance to guide his hand until it’s settling on the skin just above Lance’s shirt collar. The tips of Keith’s fingers press a little into his throat, five hot points of calloused flesh, hard from years of running over violin strings, shiny with resin.

“Can you feel this?” Lance asks.

Keith frowns for a split second before his eyes blow wide with surprise. It’s like someone’s turned on a 100ft string of fairy lights. Keith’s face lights up bright as day as his smile stretches wide.

“Yeah!”

Lance can’t stop himself from laughing when Keith practically yells at him. The boy is giddy with excitement, his shoulders shaking slightly as he tenderly reaches out with his other hand and draws one finger down the column of Lance’s throat, carefully tracing around his other finger tips until he reaches the hollow between Lance’s collarbones. The taller boy shivers at the contact, the feather light touch sparking through his nerve endings, sending little ripples of electricity down to his chest where is curls into something warm and constant.

Keith bites his lip, his eyebrows furrowing as he frowns at Lance’s jugular.

“Say something again,” he whispers.

It’s so soft that Lance almost misses it, but he gives Keith a soft smile before opening his mouth to obey.

“Guapo.”

Keith is watching his lips, Lance notes, but as the pianist speaks he frowns harder.

“Wrapper?

Lance barks out a short laugh and Keith blinks in surprise, his fingers pressing a little harder into Lance’s neck. Not hard enough to hurt, nowhere near even. Keith’s touch is impossibly gentle. But with the newfound revelation, he seems reluctant to let go, as if the ability to feel will disappear the second he stops touching Lance.

“No,” Lance replies. “ _Guapo._ It’s Spanish.”

“Oh. I don’t speak Spanish,” Keith says flatly. His bottom lip is jutting out in a small pout, one he seems to be trying hard to hold in. It makes Lance bite his own lip to stifle another cackle of laughter.

“That’s okay.”

“What did you say?”

Keith cocks his head to the side with the query, eyes round and inquisitive. Lance taps his nose secretively, earning himself another impatient smack on the head. This one is a lot more affable; Keith’s eyes glittering with mirth even as he replaces his hold around Lance’s neck. This time, he spreads his fingers, gliding them across Lance’s skin to settle under his jaw as Keith flattens his palm out against the curve of Lance’s neck.

He’s still biting his lip; that same pinch forming between his eyebrows as his eyes take on a glazy shine. It looks like he’s contemplating something hard, something he’s clamping down behind his tongue.

“Again?” Lance asks.

Keith peers up at him, nervousness coating his expression like a wet varnish. Lance places one hand over Keith’s, pressing his fingertips deeper in silent reassurance. Keith let’s a breath, shoulders relaxing with the exhalation. Lance takes in his pretty eyes, slanted and tapered towards the corners, the small divots in his cheeks, still partially visible as he purses his lips.

“Guapo,” Lance repeats assuredly. He’s not really sure what else to say. Keith’s staring pretty hard at his lips, clearly expecting something poignant, and as usual Lance’s mind is only coming up with nothing but a useless string of nonsense words to recite. He doesn’t think the violinist will be all too appreciative if he ruins this delicate moment by reciting the dick speech from Team America.

Because this moment with Keith, the two of them sat straddled each other on the kitchen floor, Keith’s hand skimming Lance’s skin, it’s a fragile thing. It feels paper thin, like Lance could surrender the urge to cough or wipe his eye and it would shatter in his hands like sugar glass.

A weird rush of panic floods through him like a crashing wave, and with it comes a memory, swift and sharp like a piece of floating driftwood pulled in by the current of his mind. Something his mother used to say to him whenever he got scared or stressed out. Soothing words. Words designed to wrap him up tight and hold him as she would.

“Estás aquí, cariño. Estoy aquí contigo

Keith’s eyes burn a dangerous indigo, laser focused and intent as he watches Lance’s lips form the words.

“Again,” he commands.

Lance repeats the words, his mouth shaping around them with whole intent and patience, calming, reaching.

“Again,” Keith breathes when Lance has finished. His voice is barely above a hoarse whisper. “In- In English.”

Lance gulps, realising all too late that Keith could probably feel his Adam’s apple bob under his touch. There was something that felt incredibly intimate about the mantra, even more so if Keith could understand it, but…

But Keith was looking at him so hopefully that Lance felt any sort of preconceptions he had crumble like weak mortar. He was a weak mortar wall under that gaze.

“You’re here, love. I’m here with you.”

Keith’s eyes flick up to Lance’s at that, and he visibly gulps. When he parts his lips, no words escape for a moment before shyly, hesitantly, as if he’s asking for the world…

“Just… One more time.”

Lance levels his gaze, feeling his heart opening up like a lotus flower as he pours all his intent into those words.

“You’re here, love,” he enunciates clearly. “I’m here with you.”

Keith sighs as Lance tapers off, the sound wistful and reverent.

“It’s like I can hear you,” he murmurs. “I can _feel_ your words.”

Lance’s grin had gone far beyond Cheshire cat and was now roaming somewhere in the “positively gleeful” territory.

“That’s the point, mullet.”

“Aaaan the moment’s over,” Keith sighs.

He withdraws his hand, albeit somewhat reluctantly, as he shifts ungracefully out of their weird sitting position.

“No, wait!” Lance protests.

He makes a blind swipe for Keith’s waist, toppling forward awkwardly as the shorter boy wriggles away from him. He throws out one hand blindly to catch himself, but the awkward angle only serves to crumple his elbow, leaving Lance to smack face first onto the dull floor.

Belatedly he hears Keith snort, and quickly scrabbles at the floor for purchase as he tries to his best to sit up and throw a glare in the other boy’s direction.

As if on cue, Lance’s phone buzzes again, and the screen lights up with a short text.

From Lucia, of course.

_I said NOW, idiota!_

Lance mechanically unfolds one arm, the arm that isn’t currently flattened against his side under the weight of his own body, to reach lazily for the device.

“Everything okay?”

Keith’s voice chimes from above him, and Lance finally twists his head enough to shoot Keith a dirty look. The violinist just smirks at him.

In an easy move of camaraderie, Keith stretches out one hand to help Lance to his feet. Lance takes it, and for once allows himself to indulge in just the simple feeling of Keith’s hand in his.

 _Good,_ a small voice croons in the back of his head. _Right._

The fleeting sensation doesn’t last, though, as Keith slips his fingers out of Lance’s grip as soon as the taller boy has gotten to his feet. Lance’s hand tingles with the loss of warmth, as if his very nerve ending were chasing the weathered texture of Keith’s skin.

“Yeah fine. She’s insisting I go back to my apartment.”

At Keith’s questioning gaze, Lance shrugs.

“I don’t know, maybe she sent me something?”

Keith just hums in acknowledgement. He’s shifting his weight between his feet slightly, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, fingers disappearing into the curtain of dark hair that sits there. It’s a gesture that Lance is quickly associating with feeling nervous, and it’s not something that’s lost on him.

As the conversation peters out, Lance can feel that all too familiar sense of awkwardness begin to seep into the atmosphere, slopping around their ankles like a puddle. It’s something he doesn’t want to experience with Keith. Not anymore.

He wants talking to Keith to be easy. He wants to get to know Keith, how he thinks, what he wants, what he likes.

“We should go on a date?”

It’s not meant to come out as a question, but Lance’s shoulders shoot up to his ears the second those words leave his lips.

Keith’s eyes are averted, and so the silence that stretches after the not-question is understandable, if not entirely good for Lance’s self esteem.

The pianist reaches out impulsively, a soft swing of his arm bringing his fingers up to tangle with Keith’s. The action catches the other boy’s attention, and Lance finds himself sinking again into dark violet irises. The colour surrounds him, a velvet blanket of mystery and intrigue, and Lance can’t help but lean into it, his weight pitching forward almost precariously as he shuffles a little closer to Keith. Their foreheads don’t brush. Not that Lance doesn’t want them to, but he stops himself from pushing that much more into Keith’s personal space. They’re still new, all of it, everything, them. It’s so fresh that Lance feels like he’s holding a dead man’s switch. One false jolt and he could let go, and the entire thing would go up in smoke. Instead he stops just a few inches away from Keith’s face, watching closely as Keith’s eyes become big and starry.

“We should go on a date,” he says again, the words firmer this time, surer.

Keith’s eyes widen infinitesimally, and if Lance hadn’t been so close he would have missed it. But then they soften; lined by the softest dusting of pink that sits high on his cheekbones. Lance feels a gentle swell of pride as he realises that he was the one that put it there.

“I’d like that,” he murmurs.

It’s so  soft, the smile that twists the corner of Keith’s mouth, so impossibly quiet and vulnerable that Lance can’t help himself as he leans forward to place a kiss there. He hears Keith let out a small gasp, uncharacteristic and sweet, and when Lance pulls back an inch he’s met with starry eyes.

From this distance, Lance can see clearly the plethora of colours that make up Keith’s unique gaze. What he had originally thought was a curious shade of indigo is actually so much richer than that. The strange shade is flecked with grey, smatterings of mercury the dapple between deep blues and purples. It’s mesmerising.

Lance doesn’t get long to dwell on it though, as Keith turns his head those precious few centimeters and captures Lance’s lips with his own.

This one is slower, more gentle, less desperate than the last. It’s not tainted with the clawing sadness that chases Keith’s mind, nor Lance’s anxious need to help.

When Keith presses his warm lips against Lance’s, it’s slow and deliberate. The way he braces his hands against Lance’s chest, fingertips just brushing the jutting curve of the collarbones below, it’s mindful and speculative all at once.

Lance weaves his fingers back into Keith’s hair, taking extra special care of just how hard he allows his dull nails to scrape across the other boys scalp.

Keith makes a low noise of surprise in the back of his throat, barely above a whimper, and Lance thinks that this is how they must be when they duet, notes threading together at the marrow of the melody, lilting, forgiving, balanced.

All too soon, Keith pulls away, resting his forehead against Lance’s as he steadies his breathing.

“I’d like that a lot,” he whispers, and his grin would have been audible even had Lance not been millimeters from it.

Lance’s phone buzzes aggressively in his back pocket, angry at being forgotten, and the tall boy swears under his breath.

“Phone?” Keith asks with a smirk.

His fingers leave their warm impression on his chest as they come to lace together behind Lance’s neck, thumbs skimming the short choppy hair springing from his nape.

Lance nods grimly, rolling his eyes so hard that he has to tilt his head back. Keith chuckles, the sound sweet and carefree.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

Lance ducks his head to steal one more kiss, one he can feel Keith smiling into, before stepping back towards the door. Keith holds it open for him as Lance steps through, one hand rubbing the back of his neck again. Lance watches as Keith slowly closes the door, smiling through the gap between the wood and the frame as it gets smaller and smaller until it finally closes, and Lance is left with the image of Keith grinning at him like a fool burned into his retinas.

And if Lance pumps one victorious fist into the air, accompanied by a delirious giggle, well, then he really hopes Keith isn’t watching him through the spyhole.

 

*

 

It doesn’t take him too much time to cross campus to his dorm, long legs striding the distance with a little more bounce than usual.

But it’s as soon as Lance steps on foot onto his floor that he immediately knows something is up. He lifts his head, taking one suspicious breath of air as he eyes the approach to his door. He feels like a police dog, scoping out the corridor for clues, anything that might be afoot, as if he’s expecting someone to jump out of the room at any moment with a theatrical “AHA!”

Be that as it is, Lance catches a hint of _something_ , barely a sliver of a scent that lingers in the air of the hallway, prodding at some sensory memory in the back of his mind. It’s a sweet scent, fruity, and somehow brittle, as if it would flake away under Lance’s fingers if only he could reach out and touch it.

As Lance approaches his door, the smell gets stronger, poking at his subconscious mind _remember, remember, remember._ And remember he does - There’s only one thing in the world that smells that way, and only one family he knew of that could coax such a scent out of an oven.

Lance almost kicks down the door in his hurry to open it, the damn thing swinging open with a loud BANG as it hits the wall behind.

“Lance, the wall!”

Hunk’s voice drifts through the short space between the doorway and the kitchen, his large form appearing in the frame.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

Hunk skitters back a step at Lance’s cry, his shoulders coming up to his ears as he knits his fingers together in front of his chest.

“Lance, buddy, I tried to tell you-”

“I know she’s here!” Lance cries, eyes whipping around wildly as he strides into the kitchen. “Hunk, tell me where she-”

Lance doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as a colossal weight slams into his waist, tackling him to the ground. Lance gasps as the air is knocked out of him, barely managing to suck in half a breath before he’s flipped onto his front, a flat palm squashing into his cheek awkwardly as one arm is twisted viciously behind his back.

“Urrgahhh-”

“Hello, baby brother,” a tauntingly sweet voice says from above him.

Lance twists his head the few millimeters he can manage, turning his eyes to the side in an attempt to catch a view of his assailant.

A knee digs painfully in between his shoulders, forcing a choked gurgling noise of complaint out of him as Lance glares at Lucia’s triumphant grin shining down at him.

Lucia has the same eyes as him, almond shaped and ocean blue, with a gleam of mischief dancing between their hues. Her skin is the same rich brown, her hair the same chocolate waves that instead fall all the way down to her ribs, and her lean frame betrays the amount of strength she holds like a cannonball. Even her smile is the same, pearly white and wicked, and right now it might as well have fangs with the way she grins at Lance, all ferocity and victory. Like a lion sat above its fresh kill.

“Geroff me,” Lance slurs.

The palm crushing his face warps his mouth, only allowing half words and grunts to escape between his lips.

“Say ‘uncle’,” Lucia mocks him.

To make her point, she twists Lance’s arm a little further. Not enough to actually hurt, but enough to warn. The crooked angle makes Lance huff in discomfort, and he flails uselessly, trying to throw off his sister’s wait.

“Eurgh, get OFF! Hunk! Hunk, _help me!_ ”

“I’m a pacifist,” Hunk says drolly.

“JUDAS!” Lance screams at his friend, striking out blindly with his free arm.

Hunk just shrugs, wilting into the corner of the room, as far away from the struggle as he can possibly get.

“Say it!” Lucia demands.

She wiggles her knee a little, the blunt knob rolling over Lance’s vertebrae in a sickening way.

Lance groans again, kicking on of his legs as he bucks wildly. The kick connects, knocking Lucia’s weight off just enough for Lance to gain purchase. He grips with his toes, pushing his weight forward as he gets his knees under him and _throws_ Lucia over his shoulder. She lands on her back with an indignant “oof!”, surprise widening her features. It’s gone in a second as she twists onto her front, scrambling to her feet as she spits venom.

“ _¡_ _Cabron!_ ¡Pagarás por esto!”

Lance dodges nimbly to the side, bending his body in a way that can only be learnt from years of evading scrappy siblings. Lucia’s fingertips just barely brush his shirt as he leaps over the couch, darting over to Hunk’s corner.

“Oh my god!” Hunks squeaks as Lance dives behind him.

He peeks over his friend’s shoulder to see a _very_ angry Lucia advancing, her face contorted into a snarl.

“Oh my _God!_ ” Hunk breathes again, sounding genuinely fearful. “Please stop fighting!”

“Manejé todo el camino hasta aquí y ni siquiera puedes decir ''hola'' amablemente,'' Lucia snaps.

She feignts to the side, striking out with her foot as Lance spins around to put Hunk between them again, but not before the toe of her shoe scrapes Lance’s ankle. He hisses at her, more out of irritation than actual pain, but the sentiment is the same.

“¿¿Me atacas y quieres que te salude amablemente?? Eres incluso más idiota de lo que Toni dice.''

Lucia lunges at him, claws drawn, and Lance ducks his head ready for the blow.

“Okay, enough!”

Before she can so much land a hit, Hunk snags Lucia right out of the air as easily as if he were plucking a flower. Lucia makes an incredibly undignified squawk, her arms going limp as she looks at Hunk with more incredulity than anger. Lance is about to laugh at the utter bemusement on her face when Hunk snakes a thick arm around his waist and hoists Lance over his shoulder.

The lanky boy makes a similarly bizarre noise of surprise, one that is repeated as his best friend promptly dumps the two of them onto the sofa.

Lance blinks a few times as he processes the abrupt change in pace before turning to fully look at his sister.

Lucia is already grinning at him, all teeth and mischief, and when she reaches out to ruffle his hair, Lance only half moves to swat her away.

“What are you doing here?” he asks with a breathless smile.

As much as he and Lucia bicker, at the end of the day they’re twins, and they fit together like two pieces of a very scruffy puzzle.

“Te extrañaba, bobo. Qué bueno verte, hermanito.”

Lance wrinkles his nose even though the affection gives him a rosy glow inside.

“Gross.”

Lucia reaches out and pulls him into a headlock immediately. Lance swears at her but she just kisses his brow, patting his hair in a way that would be sweet were it not so condescending.

Lance eventually wriggles out of the hold when Lucia loosens her grip enough to look at her phone.

“Hunk!” Lance gasps breathlessly. “You could have told me she was here!”

Hunk shoots him a pitying look as Lucia reaches out to wrestle Lance back into another headlock.

“Sorry, buddy. She just got here like an hour ago and we got baking.”

“Oh yeah, speaking of!”

Lance taps Lucia’s arm twice, straightening up as she immediately lets go. He gets to his feet, walking over to the oven as he crouches down in front of it to peer into the golden light radiating from within.

“Are these…?”he trails off, turning his head to look at his sister in absolute wonder.

Lucia grins wolfishly at him, pulling one knee up to her chest as she balances her chin on it.

“Mhm.”

Lance’s responding smile could have melted ice. The scent wafting out from the seams of the oven is so delicious he can feel himself salivating. It’s a beautifully nostalgic aroma, and it embraces him like a warm hug, making him feel simultaneously warm and safe whilst filling him with homesickness that aches bone deep.

“I can’t believe you’re baking me _pastelitos de guayaba_ !” he giggles. “I haven’t had these since I left home! Where the _hell_ did you find guava paste around here? I’ve been looking for MONTHS!”

Lucia just shrugs.

“I didn’t. I brought it with me.”

Lance gazes at the pastries as if they’ve just given him the goddamn holy grail.

“I’m so happy. I am SO happy about this. This is like, my favourite thing to eat.”

“They’re not free,” Lucia pipes up.

Lance can’t help the _tch!_ noise from spitting out between his teeth. Of course there was a catch.

“What do you want?”

The words are meant to be filled with outrage and spite, but instead they curdle in his throat, falling sluggishly over his tongue so that they come out sounding more resigned than anything.

Lucia tilts her head, releasing her arms from around her knee as she dramatically places one hand on her chest.

“I want one thing and one thing only,” she chants. Lance sighs, knowing what’s coming next.

“I want you to take me to _Vanilla.”_

Lance groans like a man on his deathbed, slumping down so far that his knees buckle and he drops to the ground wearily.

 _Vanilla_ was the only gay club in town. Aside from the music and the throngs of attractive club goers, _Vanilla_ itself didn’t have a lot of virtues: The floor was usually sticky from people spilling their watered down drinks, too dizzy from compensating for the lack of alcohol with something harder. The lights were blue, giving the club a heavy atmosphere, though Lance largely suspected it was to keep people from being able to see their veins in the toilet stalls.

He’d mentioned it to Lucia when he’d first arrived at the university, and she’d insisted that he would take her there some day. Lance guessed that today was that day. Of course it was - the universe would never let him enjoy kissing Keith without having something to balance out the high swing his mood had taken.

“Come ooooooon, Lance,” Lucia begged. “The love of my life is out there, I just need to find her!”

She gestured wildly as she spoke, a trait that the two of them had in common.

Lance remembered when he and Lucia had come out to each other. It had been around age 15 when Lance started to realise that he liked boys and Lucia started to realise that she didn’t. He remembered her slipping out of her bed to sneak under his covers and lie next to him, the mattress dipping under her weight. How the two of them would talk long into the night about what they thought their feelings meant and if they were bad. Lance remembered the insecurity they’d both felt, the fear about telling their parents and the knowledge of how society was sure to treat them. He remembered the absolute unwavering assurity they’d both felt in knowing that even if their family rejected them, even if the world decided they weren’t right, they would always, _always,_ love and accept each other.

There’s an entirely unique brand of solidarity that comes from having a twin, from knowing that there is a version of you that understands things on a biological, near sixth-sense level that others can’t even begin to fathom.

Lucia could raise an eyebrow at a certain angle and Lance could tell she was uncomfortable. He could stuff his hands in his pockets and a second later feel Lucia’s long arms embrace him in the tight hug he’d needed in that exact moment.

He remembered how they’d come out to their parents and their family at the same time, sat side by side as one unit, fingers laced together tighter than a corset. He could recall the exact moment his mother’s face had melted into a soft understanding smile, and how their father had wrapped his strong hold around the both of them as he kissed their heads and told them that they were loved, they they were accepted, entirely, entirely.

Lucia had flourished under the love and acceptance of their family, bringing a girl home no less than two weeks later, a flush high on her cheeks and her eyes bright with an untampered elation.

It had taken Lance longer - It wasn’t that he was worried about his family. Far from it, they had proven that they would love him no matter what. It was more about himself, and how he lacked the confidence to explore that part of himself. Lucia had been with him throughout, as much a rock to him as he hoped he was to her.

And now she sat on his sofa, eyes glinting with excitement and joy, and Lance knew he could never refuse his twin sister the things she truly wanted, the things that involved her heart.

“Do we _have_ to go? It’s not even a good club!” Lance tried. There’s no conviction behind the words. He knows Lucia knows this.

“Yes,” she states. “You’ve gotta get me in, Lancey Lance. ¿Y quien va a hacerme de gancho? Huh?”

“Hunk?”

“He can come to.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Polite pass,” Hunks speaks up. “Last time I went there I was attacked by some dude with UV paint and an unhealthy amount of alcohol in his system. Not an experience I wish to relive.”

“It’ll be just you and me, hermanito. Like old times!” Lucia says with a grin, spreading her arms wide. “Alejarás a todas las damas bien lejos de ti y directo a mis brazos.”

“I resent that,” Lance grumbles.

“You could take Keith?” Hunk suggests.

Lance glares at him, making a small “shh” gesture, but it’s too late. Lucia’s face gradually splits into a shit-eating grin that Lance is all too familiar with. Hell, to all intents and purposes, that’s _his_ grin.

“Oooooh?” she coos. “Who’s Keith?”

“Lance’s boyfriend.”

“He is NOT my boyfriend,” Lance snaps, glaring at Hunk harder.

“Lance crush,” Hunk corrects himself noncommittally.

“Again. Judas,” Lance points out.

Hunk just gives him a sheepish smile, pulling at a few strands of the longer hairs that escape his headband.

“Why haven’t you asked him out yet?” Lucia pushes.

“It’s not like that, we’ve only just become friends really and I dunno…” Lance’s words peter out.

He’s still unsure of how to phrase what he has with Keith. It’s new and somehow intangible, like it doesn’t really exist yet, but it could. It might.

Lucia is staring at Lance with those blue eyes, a perfect reflection of his own, deep and inscrutable. She’s chewing the inside of her cheek, and Lance levels her gaze with a look of his own, one eyebrow lifting just barely.

“Okay, you two are doing that weird no-talking twin communication thing again,” Hunk says. “It still weirds me out. It’s like you guys are those kids from The Shining.”

Lance and Lucia both whip their heads around with pinpoint synchronicity, opening their mouths simultaneously to breathe, “Red Rum…”

“NOPE!” Hunk throws his hands up in the air, leaping to his feet. “You know I hate that! I’ve told you I hate that before, and I still hate it now. I hate it.”

His already halfway out the kitchen as the twins dissolve into fits of laughter.

“Every time!” Lucia cackles. She wipes a tear away from the corner of her, the corner crinkled with amusement. “His reaction gets me every damn time!”

“Poor Hunk,” Lance concedes. “He doesn’t learn, does he?”

Lucia nods her assent as her hands clutch her belly, shaking from mirth.

With a deep sigh, her laughter fades out, and she fixes Lance with that same even gaze once again.

“So, little brother, are you taking me out or not?”

Lance sighs dramatically, flopping over onto his back to stare at the kitchen ceiling.

“I guess,” he says flippantly.

Lucia makes a pleased noise, and Lance hears her slip off the couch to move next to him. She lays down on the kitchen floor as well, their heads side by side as they both stare at the peeling paint above them.

“She’s out there,” Lucia breathes. “Mi amor. I’m gonna find her.”

Lance snorts.

“She’s not gonna be at _Vanilla,_ that’s for sure. That club is like, the last place you’d wanna find the love of your life.”

“Ah,” Lucia hums. “But of course she’d be in the last place I would think to look.”

 

*

 

The evening rolls around pretty quickly.

Despite Lucia’s frankly aggressive attempts to rally some more people, everyone is either busy or studying or already has plans. Hunk had loudly announced that he wouldn’t be joining their night out, and no amount of puppy eyes from Lance could change that. Lance had been disappointed but ultimately let it go. He’d been present the last time Hunk had attended an evening at _Vanilla,_ and could fully sympathise with his friend’s reasons for not wanting to go. To say that Hunk had come out with a severe aversion to UV paint would be putting it lightly. He’d looked like a glow stick at the end of the night, and the paint had stayed in his hair for almost a week after the incident.

Lance had let Lucia rummage through his wardrobe for an outfit. She’d insisted that if she was going to pull, he’d have to look good as well. They’d spent most of the early evening trying on outfits, Lucia pulling things off their hangers and holding them up for Lance to either dismiss or contemplate.

By the end of it, Lance had settled on a pair of pale grey jeans with rips in them over a worn pair of plain black Dr Martens, an acid wash vest with a plunging neckline, and a thin cardigan that reached down to his trouser pockets. To top it all off, Lucia had decorated him a few bracelets and necklaces, and swiped glitter over the sharp lines of his cheekbones.

“There!” she announces. “Now you look like a man fine enough to be considered my twin.”

Lance had rolled his eyes, but he had helped her curl her hair all the same.

Lucia looks good - She is tall with long limbs, just like Lance. Her styled hair falls in coils down her back, a pin on one side holding the majority of it out of her face. She was wearing a paisley print playsuit with eyelash lace lining the bust, and a pair of dark over the knee boots to top it off, making her look even taller. After getting fully dressed, Lucia excuses herself to go and put her makeup on in the bathroom. She turns down Lance’s offer to help, announcing that she has some magic to perform, and dismisses him with an airy wave of her hand.

It was only when 10pm was rolling around that Lance hears a knock at his front door.

He pokes his head out of his room, waiting to see if anyone else was going to answer. Hunk is probably holed up in his room tinkering with Rover, and Lucia has vanished into the bathroom to do her makeup. Lance gets up to open the door, and was met with an all too familiar mop of shiny black hair.

“Uhhh,” Keith stammers as he took in Lance’s appearance.

His eyes rake over Lance’s body from feet to crown, gaze absorbing the outfit and the accessories and the makeup each, lingering around the deep V of Lance’s vest before tracing up the line of his throat and finally settling on his eyes.

“I got your text,” he offers meekly.

Lance blinks, dumbfounded. A second ticks by, and then it clicks.

“LUCIA!” Lance roars.

He spins around on one heel, tearing back into the dorm as he sought out his sister. Just as he is about to screech into the bathroom, the door slams in his face. Literally.

Lance snaps back with a pained yowl as the wood smacks him squarely in the nose. A peal of laughter worms it’s way through the wood grain, reminding Lance sharply of his fury.

“Lucia!” he yells again, hammering his fist on the door. “¿Pero que has hecho?”

The laughter gets louder, and Lance has to stop himself from snarling. In the back of his mind, he’s patently aware that he’s just left Keith standing on his doorstep, but he can’t think about that right now. Right now is about his pride, and how his twin sister seems to have pulled one over on him. AGAIN.

“¡Mandé un mensaje grupal desde tu teléfono y mira quien ha aparecido!”

“How did you-”

“And before you ask, your phone passcode has been abuelita’s birthday for as long as you’ve HAD a phone.”

Before Lance can even begin to answer, the bathroom door swings open and Lucia strides right by him in a waft of glitter and sweet perfume. She marches straight to the doorway just as Keith is stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind him.

“You must be Keith!” she exclaims, holding out one hand. “I’m Lucia, Lance’s twin sister.”

Keith’s mouth drops open, his hand stilling in the air where he’d begun to reach out and shake Lucia’s. He turns to Lance with wide unbelieving eyes.

“Twin?” he echoes faintly. “There’s _two of you_?”

Lucia barks out a sharp laugh, forgetting the handshake entirely as she claps Keith on the shoulder instead. He jolts forward slightly, clearly taken off guard by the lithe girl’s strength.

“I like him,” Lucia announces.

She begins walking back towards the bathroom, whisking her hair up into a messy ponytail as she moves.

“So how did you two meet?” she asks casually, though Lance knows there is a smirk on her lips.

Regardless, he automatically lifts his hands to sign out her question, eyes meeting with Keith’s briefly as he does so. A small thrill runs through him at the barely there smile Keith is shooting him.

“What are you doing?”

Lucia’s voice jolts Lance right back to reality, and he turns his head to see her frowning in confusion at his hands hovering in mid air.

“Uhhh,” he starts intelligibly. “Keith is, um, deaf.”

Lucia’s eyebrows go wayyyy up, her aquamarine eyes flicking back and forth between Lance, Keith, Lance’s hands, back up to Lance.

“And when did you start learning sign language?” she asks slyly.

Lance feels himself flush all the way up to his ears, his head ducking instinctively in an effort to hide his furious blush.

“Él realmente me gusta mucho ¿Está bien?''

Lucia’s fox-like grin slips into something a little softer, a little kinder, and she lifts one jewelled hand to rest on her brother’s shoulder.

“Sí, entiendo. Creo que es lindo que estés aprendiendo para él.”

Keith watches the exchange quietly, his eye following Lance’s lips carefully, switching to Lucia’s when the two speak intermittently. There’s a small pinch between his thick brows as he tries to puzzle the conversation out in his head. It’s a lot cuter than it should be.

“Spanish?” Keith asks curiously.

Lucia turns to nod at him, the same quiet smile in place. She looks like she wants to say something, but hesitation has her holding back her words.

“Keith can read lips,” Lance offers in response to her silent plight.

Lucia gives him an appreciative look before turning her attention back on Keith.

“Lance is taking me to _Vanilla_ ,” she tells him.

“The gay club?” Keith asks. There’s a lilt to his tone that tells Lance he more amused than surprised, and Lance internally breathes a sigh of relief when the dark eyes that turn on him sparkle with mirth rather than offense.

“Oooooh yes,” Lucia replies sagely. “We’re going to find me a girlfriend.”

Keith chuckles, his eyes squinting as the smile reaches all the way up his face, and Lance feels a bubble of happiness swell inside his chest.

It sounds strange to articulate, but Lucia felt like a different part of him, like a completely new facet that Keith was only just now discovering. And the fact that they seemed to be getting on made Lance feel a strange rush of appreciation and gratitude towards both of them.

“We’d better not wait then,” Keith responds. “Your new girlfriend could be arriving there right now with her entourage.”

“Entourage?” Lucia echoes. “You don’t really know a lot about girls, do you Keith?”

“Girls are a complete mystery to me,” Keith admits deadpan.

Lance can’t tell if he’s making a joke or is being completely serious, but he concludes by the grim set of Keith’s face that it’s most likely a mix of both.

Lucia links her arm with Keith’s in a gesture that seems familiar,  patting his forearm consolingly.

“You and me both, Mullet.”

Keith blinks at the nickname for a second as if he’s having trouble processing the word that Lucia’s lips formed, before he shoots Lance a scornful glare. The pianist throws his hands up as he takes a deliberate step back.

“Don’t look at me, buddy. I didn’t tell her that. Just goes to show I’m not the only one who thinks it’s a mullet.”

“She’s your twin,” Keith says flatly. “Don’t you share like, brainwaves or something?”

Lucia waggles her eyebrows at him, a Cheshire smile carving her face as she murmurs, “Red Ruuuuuum.”

“I can HEAR you!” Hunk’s voice shouts from behind the closed door of his room. “It’s still creepy!”

Lucia lets out a delighted whoop of laughter, tugging Keith’s arm as she leads the three of them out of the building.

The walk into town doesn’t take too long. Lucia chats animatedly to Keith, hands gesturing wildly as she drops Lance in some pretty hot water regarding their childhood. Lance protests, lunging at her whenever her accounts get a tad too detailed. Throughout it all, Keith laughs at the two of them, his shoulders shaking with full body chuckles as the twins wrestles and snap at each other. As the conversation turns to a lull, Lance takes the opportunity to actually look at Keith.

He’s wearing ripped black skinny jeans, a loose fitting black t-shirt, and black converse. His hair is tousled, falling in soft curves around his face, as if he’s just let the cool breeze of the evening dry it off out of the shower. It should be boring, but instead it makes the shorter boy look casually elegant, dark as a smudge of ink, sleek in the zero effort way that most magazines aspired to. Lance raises one eyebrow as Keith catches him staring, ignoring the lurch his heart gives at that devastating smile.

“Went for the colourful look this evening, did we?”

Keith shrugs, his fingers dipping into his pockets. He’s wearing a leather cuff on his wrist in prime edgelord fashion. Lance would scoff if it didn’t go with the outfit so well.

“Black is the new black.”

Lucia whistles appreciatively.

“I really like him. You’ve got good taste, hermanito.”

Lance is thankful for the darkness of the evening because it hides the vengeful flush that colours his cheeks. Keith raises his eyebrows in surprise, looking at Lance with a silent question.

_You told her about us?_

Lucia spots the look, eyes travelling between Keith and Lance before she steps in front of the shorter boy, making sure he’s looking at her lips.

“I could tell. It’s a twin thing. Like you said - We ‘share brainwaves or something.’”

Lance thinks Keith is going to reply with some sharp witty retort, something designed to keep Lucia on her toes. But he’s pleasantly surprised when Keith looks down, one hand self consciously coming up to lace his fingers in the dark hair at the back of his head as he hides a smile with a bite to his lip.

Lucia takes the moment Keith looks away as an opportunity to wink at Lance, leaving the taller boy sputtering ungracefully.

“You two can hold hands if you want. I don’t mind third-wheeling,” Lucia says suddenly.

Lance doesn’t think his blush can get even worse, but he’s unpleasantly proved wrong. His face feels uncomfortably hot as he steals a glance at Keith.

The shorter boy looks just as dumbfounded at the sudden declaration, turning to Lance with his lips parted in surprise.

“Unless,” Lucia continues, her tone far from innocent. “You don’t want to.”

It’s bait. Lance’ knows it’s bait, but he can’t help himself. Like Lucia said, it’s a twin thing. Less than that, even, it’s a plain old sibling thing. A challenge issued that needs to be addressed.

With a sneer pointed at his sister, Lance roughly grabs Keith’s wrist, pulling the other boy’s hand out of his pocket and lacing their fingers together deliberately. Lance nods once, to himself mostly, before shooting a triumphant smirk at Lucia…

Only to be met with an almost identical facial expression. It’s only then that Lance knows how thoroughly he’s been played.

Hunk was right - Lucia had always been more cunning than him. And even though he’s holding Keith’s hand, enjoying the way the warmth of their fingers twine together, even though it’s so gorgeously domestic it borders on awkward, Lance knows this is technically his sister’s victory.

A gentle squeeze of his hand brings Lance back to the present, and he turns his head to see Keith peeking up at him through his lashes. It steals Lance’s breath for a second, catching in his throat as his heart quivers.

He takes a moment to appreciate it before shooting daggers in Lucia’s direction. The smile she shoots him in return is so sweet it’s sickening.

“You’re welcome!” she quips before turning around and marching ahead.

Lance lets out a sigh, dropping his head with a small shake as he continues to walk, side by side with Keith.

“You know she set that up, don’t you?” Keith murmurs after a few moments.

“Yeah, but it worked out alright,” Lance replies with a smile.

Keith looks away, and though it’s too dark to tell, Lance would bet money that he was smiling.

As they turn the corner, the neon lights of the club come into view. The LED cursive of the name “Vanilla” shines so brightly above the cue that it damn near burns out Lance’s retinas: A fair reflection of his sentiment towards the infamous establishment. He squints up at it briefly before moving towards the back of the line of impatient people waiting to get in. A hand shoots out to grip his bicep tight as a vice, and Lance spins around to stare at his sister.

“Uh, where are you going?” Lucia demands.

Lance exchanges a silent look with Keith, happy to see the other boy looking as equally nonplussed.

“We’re skipping the queue,” Lucia explains. “There’s no way I’m waiting in that.”

She gestures vaguely towards the throng of people with clear distaste, her lip curling up judgmentally.

“Oh no, not again. Not after what happened last time,” Lance groans.

Lucia had a habit of… Skipping queues. As it were, last time she’d managed to get them into a club, they’d spent the majority of the night playing a rather elaborate game of cat and mouse with the bouncers that had ended up with them knocking over a D-list celebrity in an effort to dash out the back door of the club. The story had made the papers, though it had been spun into a tall tale about the celebrity being attacked by over zealous fans, rather than the truthful story that was she had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and been balled into by a pair of drunken underage party animals.

“Relajarte, hermanito. I’m just going to go make friends,” Lucia said with a sly grin.

She slipped around Lance and Keith, sashaying her hips in a deliberate movement as she made her way over to the bouncer.

Lance let out another groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt another gentle squeeze of his hand, and looked up to give Keith a grateful smile at the simple reassurance.

“We’d better go and stop her before she gets us arrested,” Lance sighed.

“That bad?” Keith asked. His voice was tinged with a hint of genuine worry.

“Maybe,” Lance replied, as much as he hated to admit it.

He gave Keith’s hand a delicate pull, leading him towards where Lucia was busy flirting with a stocky bouncer that had absolutely no idea she would never be interested in him.

“Holy shit, is that Lance?”

A voice breaks out through the crowd, and Lance whips his head around to try and catch sight of whoever called his name.

“And Keith Kogane, too!”

Rolo comes tumbling out of the door of the club, lazy smile stretched easily over his face as he reaches out a hand to clap Keith on the shoulder. Lucia is on him in a second.

“Who’s your friend?” she asks. The question is directed at Lance, but she keeps her gaze firmly on Rolo, megawatt smile turn up to full power.

“And… Lady Lance?” Rolo says slowly. He does a double take, looking between Lance and Lucia, back to Lance, before landing on Lucia again.

“Lucia,” she says breezily, extending one hand to shake. “I’m Lance’s twin sister.”

<“Twins? Really?”> Rolo exclaims, shaking the offered hand. <“That’s awesome, I didn’t know.”>

“Me either,” Keith replies with a huff of laughter.

It takes Lance a second to register that Rolo was signing. It must just be something he does automatically, Lance speculates. Lucia, however, notices right away.

“You can sign as well?” she asks with admiration, only some of which Lance knows is layered on thick.

<“Yeah, my partner actually teaches the class that Lance takes,”> Rolo says with a grin.

“Small world,” Keith remarks.

He doesn’t look at Lance, but the pad of his thumb brushes over the taller boy’s knuckles affectionately.

“Do you work here?” Lucia butts in, turning the conversation a complete 180.

“Hm? Oh!” Rolo’s face cracks into a smile. <”Yeah, actually I’m DJing here tonight.”>

“That’s amazing!” Lucia chants, her eyes lighting up.

To anyone else, it would look like excitement. To Lance, it looks like the opportunity she’s been waiting for.

“I can’t wait to see what you play!”

<”You guys waiting to get in?”> Rolo enquires, casting one dubious eye over to the bunching queue of people shuffling their feet. <”Just come in with me, it’s no problem.”>

Lucia’s eyes flick to Lance’s for a millisecond. It’s a millisecond that speaks volumes.

_Bingo!_

“Are you sure?” she asks, face morphing into one of mild concern.

If their expedited entrance didn’t depend on it, Lance would have rolled his eyes at how much she was playing up to the role.

<”Yeah, no worries, come on in,”> Rolo says with a wave of his hand.

He turns his back on them to clap the bouncer on the shoulder, jerking his head to the trio with a quick grunt of, “They’re with me.”

The bouncer eyes Lucia grudgingly but opens the velvet rope for them all the same. Lucia blows him a kiss, cackling as Lance pulls her hand down from a cheeky wave before the large man hauls her back out onto the street.

“You have NO shame,” he whispers to her, quiet enough that Rolo won’t hear.

“You don’t ask, you don’t get,” she says simply.

Lance is about to retort when he feels warm breath at his ear, and he nearly headbutts Keith as he turns his head to look at the other boy.

“I like her,” Keith murmurs. “She’s smart.”

Lance drops his jaw with open offense.

“Are you saying I’m not smart?” he accuses.

“She got us in didn’t she?” Keith says with a shrug.

But there’s a crooked smile hanging on his face that frankly has no business being there. Lance could hit him for being so handsome. Or kiss him… You know, whatever.

As they step through a back hall, the pounding beat of the music gets louder and louder. The bass is so heavy that Lance can feel it through his boots, and he glances at Keith to spy at his reaction.

Keith has a small smile playing on his lips, eyes cast down as his head nods almost imperceptibly with the beat. He seems unaware of Lance watching as he reaches out his free hand to run over the bricks of the corridor as they walk. Lance would bet he can probably feel the beat through the shaking plaster.

Lucia laces her fingers into Lance’s free hand, giving Rolo a light wave of thanks before leading them in a train over to the bar.

Elbowing a path through the tightly packed sea of bodies, Lucia makes a small space for them, whirling around to fix both boys with a heavy glare.

“First things first,” she declares. “We are going to find me a girl to get horrendously drunk and make out with. And that means _before_ the two of you start getting touchy.”

Lance regrettably has to drop Keith’s hand in order to sign Lucia’s words out to him. The club is a little too packed and a little too dark for them to see anything that clearly, so Lance guesses that Keith is going to have trouble reading lips. He struggles to keep up with his sister’s rate of fire, and he’s not sure he interprets everything correctly, but Keith seems to be understanding enough to piece together what she’s saying.

“Do you have a type?” he says loudly, voice only barely audible over the thumping noise of the music.

Lucia nods, clearly impressed with the question.

“A bit shorter than me, dark hair, dark eyes,” she shouts over the noise. “That’s just a preference though, I’m not too picky.”

Lance almost smacks her. They always did have similar tastes, but one quick look at Keith and he knows exactly the type of girl she’s looking for. Thankfully, Keith doesn’t seem to have made the connection. He’s just nodding sagely, as if he’s processing Lucia’s outline like a formula. Lance taps his temple in a two-fingered salute, moving to try and find higher ground and gain a better vantage point to view the club with. Before he can move, Lucia grabs him by the arm again, preventing him from getting lost in the crowd.

“Leandro! I wanna do the twin magic thing!”

The groan Lance lets out would’ve shaken the foundations of the building were it not already being rumbled by the music.

<“Lucia, that NEVER works! People just think you’re creepy!”>

“If she’s the one, she’ll think it’s hilarious!” Lucia argues back.

Lance just sighs, running one hand through his hair. He feels a soft press in between his shoulder blades, and turns to see Keith grinning at him.

“I don’t know what you two are up to,” he begins. “But I’m going to get us some drinks. Beer?”

“Tequila,” Lance and Lucia say at the same time.

Keith raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, instead just nodding his assent before disappearing between the mess of hot bodies in the direction of the bar.

Lance keeps Lucia’s hand in his own, bouncing onto his tiptoes lightly as he scans the crowd for girls he knows his sister will like.

He points one or two out, but Lucia shakes her head, eyes narrowed and alert.

She’s clearly looking for something very particular. Normally Lance would complain, but the night has only just started, and as much as he whined about coming out to _Vanilla_ , he really wants her to have a good night.

He spots Keith over by the bar, the broad slope of his shoulders causing the black shirt to stretch slightly, curving around the muscles as he leans forward to shout his order to the barman. It’s then that Lance spots her a few feet down the bar.

She looks a little shorter than Keith, though it’s hard to tell with the way she’s standing, weight braced on her arms as she leans on the bartop. Her eyes are slanted prettily, dark glittery eye shadow deepening her sockets as she tilts her head, gazing over her shoulder at the crowd of dancing people. Her hair is cut choppily just below her jawline, a few highlights weaving under the dark locks, suggesting fashion colours, though it’s hard to tell in the dim blue lighting of the club.

She’s wearing a very short, high waisted black skirt with the beginnings of a slit up the side, allowing a peekaboo strip of skin to show around her diaphragm underneath a black bandeau top. A denim jacket is falling off one shoulder, and Lance catches a peek of black over the knee boots through the sporadic gaps in the crowd. She’s completely stunning, and exactly Lucia’s type.

“What about her?” Lance asks, trying his best to point subtly.

Lucia’s eyes go wide as she spots the girl, her mouth opening slightly in awe.

“Her!” she squeals, slapping Lance’s arm just a touch too hard. “It’s gotta be her! Come on, Leandro, _please!_ ”

“Urrrghh _fine,_ ” Lance gripes. “But you could be blowing your one shot at her with this convoluted pick up technique.”

“I’d rather be blowing her with this convoluted pick up technique,” Lucia fires back.

Lance tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a hacking cough. Lucia just looks at him pityingly.

“Didn’t need to hear that, thanks,” Lance wheezes, thumping himself on the chest.

Lucia ignores him, pressing her phone into his hand before giving her brother a rather rough shove in the direction of the girl. Lance takes a shaky breath, steeling his resolve in preparation of the absolute fool he’s about to make out of himself.

Approaching the girl, he leans up against the bar, facing out towards the crowd before turning to her with his most dazzling smile.

“Sad to see someone as beautiful as you all by yourself over here,” he opens with.

He’s trying his best to make his voice sound cheerily conversational, rather than the drawl he’s sure it sounds like.

The girl turns to him as he addresses her, eyeing him pointedly up and down with a slight frown.

“Are you really trying to pick up girls here?” she asks dryly. “You’re in the wrong club, man.”

“You’re right,” Lance agrees.

The girl’s eyebrows go up at his easy defeat. It’s something that Lance has learnt from the amount of times Lucia has made him do this whole song and dance. Admit your mistake early and people are more likely to hear you out.

“For a girl like you to be interested, I’d have to be a girl myself, right?”

“That’s right,” the girl verifies with a curt nod.

It’s the opening he’s waiting for, and Lance let’s a cheeky smile break out onto his face.

“Lucky for you, that’s something I can do. You see, I’m actually a magician.”

The girl snorts at him, clearly unimpressed.

Lance straightens up undeterred, pushing away from the bar to face the girl fully.

“Close your eyes,” he tells her.

The girl quirks one eyebrow at him skeptically.

“Uh, yeah. No, I’m not gonna do that, creep,” she says flatly, turning her attention back towards the bar.

Lance takes Lucia’s phone out from where he’d slipped it into his pocket, holding it out for the girl to take. He feels like an absolute tool, but he reminds himself: This is Lucia’s night.

“Look, take this. I’m going to show you a magic trick. If you like it, you put your number into that phone. If not, then you can keep it or smash it or whatever. I don’t care.”

The girl takes the phone slowly, eyeing it like it’s a timebomb.

“Close your eyes,” Lance says again.

The girl purses her lips at him, but closes her eyes all the same.

Lance feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around to see Lucia behind him.

“Buena suerte, Lucía. Espero que ella sea La Indicada,” he whispers, low enough that the girl doesn’t hear.

Lucia’s hand on his shoulder squeezes kindly, a silent gesture of thanks as they switch places and Lucia settles on the bar in front of the girl. As Lance pushes around the mass of people pushing to get drinks, he faintly hears behind him, “Okay. Open your eyes.”

He doesn’t stay to see what happens next, but he hopes for Lucia’s sake her weird sense of humour works out this time.

Pushing through the crowd, it’s not long before he manages to find Keith still pressed up against the bar. As Lance approaches though, he can see Keith flattening himself as close to the bar as possible, clearly looking uncomfortable.

In a second he sees why, as the crowd things for a moment, Lance spots a guy leaning very close into Keith’s personal space, he mouth pulled into a leer that he probably thinks is attractive.

Keith doesn’t look scared. In fact, he looks damn near ready to break the guy’s nose. As the bloke boldly reaches out one hand to rest on Keith’s hip, Lance feels his vision turn red, and a hot flash of anger spurs him forward, using the length of his stride to his full advantage.

Keith turns his head at the movement, his eyes connected with Lance’s across the rapidly shortening space between them, and Lance sees him mouth his name.

Before he’s even within distance, Keith is reaching out to him, shoving the guy firmly out of the way as his arms stretch out towards Lance.

The taller boy steps into them, coiling one arm around Keith’s waist as he fulls their bodies flush together.

“Who’s this?” the man grunts.

He sneers at Lance, clearly unhappy at being interrupted before flexing his fingers menacingly, and the awkward shifting of the joints making it look like he’s trying to crack his knuckles.

Before Lance can respond, Keith is wrapping his hand around the back of Lance’s neck to pull him into a bruising kiss. Lance’s eyes blow wide with the sudden change in trajectory, but he relaxes into it after a second, shifting his head to an easier angle as Keith tugs on one of his necklaces. His brain short circuits when Keith swipes his tongue over Lance’s bottom lip, and he’s glad that the music is loud so that the people surrounding them can’t hear his urgent moan.

By the time they part, the guy has disappeared.

Keith looks over his shoulder back towards the bar, eyes wary for any sign of the other man. When it looks like the coast is clear, he abruptly releases Lance’s neck, taking a pointed step backwards.

“Sorry,” he says in a rush. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

Lance has to try consciously to steady his breathing. He’s having a hard time processing the way Keith just kissed, hot and desperate, even if it was just for show.

Mercifully, the shorter boy doesn’t dwell on it, instead reaching out to offer Lance a shot glass full of clear liquid. He glances around briefly as Lance takes the drink from him thankfully.

_ <Where’s Lucia?> _

Lance pauses to throw back his head, letting the searing liquid tip down his throat before dropping the glass back onto the counter.

_ <Girl.> _

Keith nods knowingly, a pleased smile causing his cheeks to dimple again.

Lance wants to kiss those adorable dips in his skin.

But to do that, he’s going to need a lot more liquid courage. Leaning over the counter top, he holds four fingers up to the cute barmaid before pointing at his and Keith’s empty shot glasses. She nods her understanding, making her way over to line 8 shot glasses up on the counter before reaching to lift a bottle of silver tequila off the shelf.

“Four each?” Keith asks disbelievingly. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“I’m trying to get myself drunk,” Lance grins. “You’re welcome to come along for the ride.”

“ _Me_ come along for the ride?” Keith echoes.

He sounds half amused, half offended, and one hundred percent up for the challenge.

“If you think you can keep up,” Lance goads, smirk already in place.

Keith shoots him a dangerous grin, wordlessly picking up the first shot glass and downing the liquor without even blinking an eye. That unbroken eye contact has Lance trailing his gaze down the pale column of Keith’s throat, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the drink. The action paired with the first hit of alcohol in his system and a rogue thought has the blood rushing down to a hot pool in Lance’s belly, and he uses the rest of the shots to distract himself forcefully from the carnal pull in his gut.

A sudden roar from the crowd of clubgoers has Lance and Keith whipping their attention around to the DJ booth in time to see Rolo stepping up to the decks, arms held up and fingers spread wide as he beams at the crowd.

“Looks like it’s Rolo’s set,” Keith observes as he necks another shot.

Lance watches as Rolo slips a pair of chunky headphones over his head, letting them sit around his neck like a scarf as he presses his ear to one side. He spins a vinyl between his hands, flicking it onto the turntable before reaching over to tap at a few keys on his laptop.

Music blares to life over the speakers, loud enough that Keith actually jumps with surprise. Lance chuckles at him, ignoring the indignant look that Keith sends him in return.

The shorter boy turns back to watch Rolo and Lance follows suite. The DJ is bouncing on his toes, waving his arms up and down to try and rally the crowd as the music comes to a fever pitch. Just as the beat is about to drop, he switches the song into something else, equally as bassy but this time with a familiarity that has Lance’s eyes snapping up.

The grating beats peter out and Lance lets himself sink into the words, mouthing along as they play out over the churning swarm of sweaty bodies before him.

“Mira mi amor quisiera hacerte entender como los besos de tus labios me enloquecen a mí me tienen cayendo…”

The words flow through him like water, trickling down from some untouched part of his mind to seep out through his mouth, more muscle memory than conscious thought. He catches Keith gazing at him, turning to his head to look at him fully.

“You know this song?” Keith asks, curious.

Lance nods as he turns to flag down the barmaid again.

“Do you like it?” Keith continues.

Lance tilts his head to the side, a twist in his mouth.

_ <It’s a good song.> _

Keith frowns quizzically, as if he can’t fully parse the sentiment behind the signs.

They accept the new shots the barmaid pours them, cleaning their glasses a little slower than before. Lance can start to feel the telltale hum of inebriation settling into his body, relaxing his muscles and his mind, letting all his hangups loosen their tourniquet hold on his persona just enough to give him some wiggle room.

Keith is bobbing his head to the beat, strangely keeping perfect time as some of the tension bleeds out his shoulders. Lance feels it’s safe to say that some of the tequila is starting to hit Keith as well, judging by the way he’s leaning slightly closer, their shoulders brushing a little too much to just be friendly.

But then, Lance already knows they’re a stage beyond friends. Or, well, maybe not a stage, but definitely a step. A shaky step into new uncharted territory, one they both seem wary of.

“What can you hear?” Lance asks suddenly.

Keith blinks at him slowly, the alcohol in his system making his movements a fraction more sluggish than usual. He doesn’t seem offended by the question, merely inquisitive. He closes his eyes for a second, head still bobbing in rhythm with the tempo. A moment later, he opens them, fixing Lance with a bottomless stare.

“I can sort of hear the melody,” he explains. “And I can feel the beat. It vibrates, kinda like… Like you said earlier…”

He trails off, a quiet smile tugging his lips. Lance hums as the memory of the two of them curled up together on Keith’s kitchen floor comes swimming in front of his vision.

He wants something like that again, something that they can share, something that’s intimate and _theirs_.

But, Lance laments, they’re in a gay club, in _Vanilla_ of all places, squashed between swathes of drunk people trying to rub up against each other as they move clumsily to the beat. It’s possibly the least romantic, least intimate setting they could have ever been in.

But it’s this exact train of thought that gives Lance an idea. He can feel a slow grin start to spread across his face like a fissure, only partially aware that he most likely looks slightly unhinged as it reaches his eyes.

Spinning round a little too fast to be safe (considering the amount of tequila that’s sitting it his bloodstream), Lance waves down another barmaid for one more shot each. She shoots him a look at the row of empty shot glasses already lined along the bar like soldiers stood at attention, but wordlessly removes them and pours two neat shots next to each other before snatching Lance’s money out of his hand.

“What are you up to?” Keith asks cautiously.

He’s eyeing Lance out the corner of his vision, as if the taller boy is about to announce that they’re robbing a bank.

Lance grins cockily as he clinks his shot glass against the side of Keith’s before bringing the brim to his lips and snapping his head back, letting the sour liquid carve a burning path down his oesophagus. He places his glass back on the bar, wiping his lips quickly with the back of his other hand. Keith’s glass joins his not half a second later, and Lance looks up to see Keith watching him, gaze heavy with expectation and something else. Something darker.

Newly emboldened with the Dutch courage he’s just swallowed, Lance reaches out to lace his fingers around Keith’s wrist. The shorter boy offers no resistance when Lance tugs him away from the bar, instead just slipping along quietly behind him as Lance weaves his way through the crowd, clearing their path with a solid elbow and a few well timed grins of apology. He spots Lucia at one point, her hands settled on the pretty girl’s hips, their foreheads bowed together as they murmur words at each other too quiet for anyone else to hear. In the back of his mind, Lance feels a proud tingle that Lucia’s lame trick actually worked for once. Perhaps she’s finally found the one.

Lance stops a little way in front of the DJ booth, taking advantage of his height as he lifts one arm to wave manically at Rolo.

“ROLO!” he shouts over the crowd.

The DJ looks up at the drowned out cry of his name, eyes narrowed and searching.

“ROLO!” Lance tries again.

This time, Rolo’s eyes settle on him, and the DJ cracks a smile, offering Lance a lazy salute in response.

“Desperado!” Lance shouts.

Rolo frowns at him, his face contorting into utter confusion as he mouths the word “what?”

“You know! Rihanna?”

Rolo still looks absolutely stumped, and Lance can feel his plan starting to crack around the edges like cheap brick. That’s when Rolo lifts his hands away from the deck for a split second to sign at lance over the top of the crowd.

_ <What did you say?> _

Lance can almost cry. He’s never been so happy for ASL in his life.

Letting go of Keith’s hand briefly, Lance lifts his arms to fingerspell the name of the song.

Rolo watches carefully, eyes tracking Lance’s fingers with calculated precision before comprehension dawns on his face.

He shoots Lance a confident thumbs up, pointing at his laptop and mouthing “next one.”

Keith looks slightly bewildered at the exchange, only frowning at Lance in silent question as the taller boy turns back to him with an elated expression.

Lance loops his fingers around Keith’s wrist again just as the unmistakable opening notes of Rihanna’s _Desperado_ comes drifting over the speakers.

Lance makes a mental note to thank Rolo for being a solid wingman the next time they see each other.

He pulls Keith through the crowd, not stopping until they’re right in front of the speaker. The gridded surface looks liked a blurry photograph with how the dense vibrations of the bass rocks through it. Lance wastes no time in reaching out and touching the juddering face of it, feeling the sensation shoot little tingles of electric stimulation up his arm muscles.

He peeks over his shoulder to gesture at Keith with a sharp tilt of his head. Keith complies, stepping up beside Lance with a quizzical expression as his gaze flicks between the tall boy and the huge block of the speaker. Lance bites his lip to stifle a grin as he tentatively lifts Keith’s hand before pressing it against the shuddering front of the speaker, his own hand placed firmly over the top. Keith’s eyes widen at the sudden rush of sensation sending information firing up through his fingertips. His eyes snap up to Lance’s, bright and keen and full of wonder as he opens his mouth in silent awe.

_ <Can you feel that?> _

Lance mouths the words. There’s no point shouting, not when he can’t even hear his own voice. And he doesn’t want to sign, either, because that would mean taking his hand away from Keith’s and… He doesn’t want to do that.

The smile that splits Keith’s face is dazzling, literally, the UV lights overhead illuminating his teeth like a Cheshire beacon in the dark blue hues of the club.

“THAT’S INSANE!” he shouts.

Lance can barely hear him over the blaring speaker. He thinks he can feel his skull ringing inside the confines of his scalp with how heavy the bass is, pumping his ears full of tangible melody. He grins at Keith’s stunned face, elation stirring in his chest, amplified by the alcohol buzzing in his veins. Lance allows himself a second to close his eyes, content with the atmosphere, and to leave Keith a minute to absorb the music. With his eyes closed, Lance begins to process all the other stimuli tugging at the corners of his sense. The speaker booms with the bass line of the song, the vibrations strong enough that Lance can feel them passing under his feet through the rubber of his sneakers. A stray thought has him recalling a time when he watch Animal Planet and the narrator claimed that elephants could hear each other from miles away through low frequencies that weren’t audible to humans. Lance wonders if the way the music sings through his feet, tracing a rhythm all the way up his frame, is anything like that deep frequency.

He’s vaguely aware of the crowd surrounding them, all hot sweaty bodies pressed into on another, closer, hotter, faster. He can feel the influence of the alcohol running through his system, draping a thin veil between his mind and body that he feels as a pleasant fuzziness in the back of his skull.

And he can feel the warmth of Keith’s hand under his, the skin soft and pliant, a complete contrast to the tips of his fingers that Lance knows are leathery and rough. It’s a fact he suddenly feels incredibly acquainted with. Lance relinquishes his mind of conscious thought, a sense of calmness settling in his bones as he allows the anoesis to wash over him like a haze of fog.

He feels transcendent, floating somewhere between thought and feeling, both acutely and calmly aware of how Keith worms his fingers between Lance’s before pulling him away from the speaker. Lance follows obediently, letting Keith pull them to the centre of the dance floor where the crowd is thickest. There’s barely enough space for them, but maybe that was the plan. Maybe that was Keith’s idea all along, what he’d had in mind when he’d pulled Lance away from the deafening speakers into the crushing horde of clubbers.

Keith turns around to face Lance, letting go of his fingers to settle his hands on the sharp jut of Lance’s hip bones. Lance settles his arms around Keith’s shoulders, letting their pelvises bump together with the tidal push and pull of the crowd. He’s expecting Keith to shuffle awkwardly between his feet - He may play the violin beautifully but he doesn’t seem like much of a dancer.

Which is why when Keith fixes him with a glowing hot gaze, burning out at him from behind void dark hair, and rolls his hips into Lance’s in a way that is positively _sinful,_ the pianist nearly inhales his tongue.

Keith’s grip on Lance’s hip tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh there, holding him in place and he rolls his body again.

Lance feels completely overwhelmed, the violent cocktail of alcohol and sensation and carnal _want_ so strong it’s making his head spin.

Keith seems to notice his struggle, pausing his ministrations just long enough to shoot Lance an infuriatingly smug smile.

“What happened to all that talk, Leandro?” he breathes.

The use of his real name nearly makes Lance’s legs buckle, any snappy retort he’d had evaporating from his mind like steam.

The song blares on in the background, _there ain’t nothing..._

And so he counters the only way he knows how.

_There ain’t nothing here for me..._

He threads his fingers into Keith’s long hair, tugging a little harsher than normal, carefully noting the way the other boy’s mouth falls open in a gasp.

_There ain’t nothing here for me anymore…_

Before leaning forwards-

_But I don’t wanna be alone..._

-and covering Keith’s mouth with his own.

Keith melts into it instantly, his body going soft and pliant as he leans into the kiss. His arm winds around Lance’s waist like a rope, fingers pressing hard into the dimples of Lance’s lower back.

Lance catches Keith’s bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling lightly as he feels Keith’s hand fist into his shirt.

The music swells into the chorus, but Lance is barely aware of it, too enraptured with the feeling of Keith’s tongue pressing into his mouth, of how their hips force together with the external quash of the crowd and the internal need for closeness, tinted with lust and desire. Keith tugs the strap of his vest, demanding that they get impossibly closer. Lance groans with the shift, the friction between his hips sparking something deeply primitive and needy.

The two of them are given a second of warning. A second in which Rolo shouts something incomprehensible over the loudspeaker, the screaming of the crowd reaching a fever pitch before the sprinklers open full above them and the blue lights shift to black. Lance and Keith spring apart as much as they are able, which isn’t much given the tight space they’ve been packed into like a can of sardines. Lance’s hands are still lost in Keith’s hair, Keith’s arms still wrapped around Lance’s waist.

But a thick smattering of UV paint is raining down on them, coating their bodies in a liquid glow in seconds. Keith gasps as the cool fluid falls down on them, his eyes screwing tight shut to avoid it from going in his eyes. Lance takes a second to absorb the image of Keith flailing like a cat dropped into a bathtub before he tips his head back with a brash laugh, wild and unfiltered. He closes his eyes, listening to the clamour of voices around him, to the sound of Rihanna singing out over the dancefloor, of the feel of Keith’s arms around his waist, keeping him in a warm circle of sureness and familiarity. When he opens his eyes, Keith is staring at him with something that looks perilously close to awe.

He peers over the top of Keith’s head to see Lucia doing almost the exact same thing as him, her face tilted towards the fat droplets of paint that are still raining down over them, laughing wide as the liquid frames her body in a muted line of blue luminescence. The pretty girl grins at her, cupping Lucia’s face to turn it towards her as she leans in and slots their lips together.

Lance feels the joy in his body reach a tipping point, folding over and in on itself as it evolves into something more like contentedness. He looks back down at Keith to see the other boy still gazing at him, a soft smile lighting up his face. This time when he leans in, it’s slower, more controlled, more trusting.

Their teeth clack, but it’s only because they can’t stop smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO HOW ABOUT SEASON 3 HUH?? THE SOFTEST HEY MAN EVER!!
> 
> Also Lance's twin sister is hella gay byeeeeeeee
> 
> I want to say a MASSIVE thank you to [hihereami](http://hihereami.tumblr.com/)  
> for helping with the Spanish, and for taking the time to translate my badly phrased dialogue. You've been an absolute angel!
> 
> Aight, translations:
> 
> “Cabron! ¡Pagarás por esto!” - "Bastard! You'll pay for that!"
> 
> “Manejé todo el camino hasta aquí y ni siquiera puedes decir ''hola'' amablemente'' - "I drive all the way and you can't even say 'hello' nicely!"
> 
> “Me atacas y quieres que te salude amablemente?? Eres incluso más idiota de lo que Toni dice.'' - "You attack me and you want me to say hello nicely? You're an even bigger idiot than Toni says."
> 
> “Te extrañaba, bobo. Qué bueno verte, hermanito.” - "I missed you, idiot. It's good to see you baby brother."
> 
> "¿Y quien va a hacerme de gancho?" - "Who's gonna be me wingman?"
> 
> “Alejarás a todas las damas bien lejos de ti y directo a mis brazos.” - "Drive all the ladies away from you and straight into my arms."
> 
> “¿Pero que has hecho?” - "What did you DO?"
> 
> “¡Mandé un mensaje grupal desde tu teléfono y mira quien ha aparecido!” - "I sent out a group text from your phone and look who showed up!"
> 
> “Él realmente me gusta mucho ¿Está bien?'' - "I really like him, okay?"
> 
> “Sí, entiendo. Creo que es lindo que estés aprendiendo para él.” - "Yeah, that's okay. I think it's nice that you're learning for him."
> 
> “Buena suerte, Lucía. Espero que ella sea La Indicada,” - "Good luck, Lucia. I hope she's The One."
> 
>  
> 
> Feel free to drop by [My Tumblr](http://zizzani.tumblr.com/)  
> and say hi! I have IM or you can just shoot me a message ^_^


	14. Calando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calando - getting softer
> 
> Post club cuteness, and the showcase starts looming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."//
> 
>  
> 
> _If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING._
> 
>  
> 
> Guess who's currently working 4 jobs!!! _IT IS ME._ I'm on day 3 of an 11 day work stretch so I'm gonna be getting paid hella!
> 
> I was so uncertain about this chapter. I had a load of bullet points I wanted to hit and then I was 12k in and had only covered three of them and then it just ended up soft so I guess that's a win? Also for anyone expecting smut, yes it's coming but my poor demisexual ass has to work my way up to it. I gotta feel the love before I _feel_ the love, ya know?
> 
> Anyways, thank you all for the amazing comments and support. I was apprehensive about posting Lucia but I've been overwhelmed by the positive response she's had. So much so that I'm writing a very short spin off fic about the club scene from her POV. I hope some of you catch the reference to 80s Voltron I included ;)
> 
> Happy reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter! :D

By the time the lights in the club come up and security ushers everyone towards the door, Lance is just about ready to shed his own skin. The UV paint had seemed pretty fun at the time, but after several hours of dancing amongst throngs of hot bodies it has mutated into a sticky gunge that’s mostly mixed with other people’s sweat. Lance flicks a few partially dried flakes off his skin, wrinkling his nose when they flutter weightlessly rather than fall to the ground. He feels like he’s been glossed in a thin veneer of the evening’s ambience - thoroughly spent yet still slightly glowing.

Keith’s hand feels hot in his, even when they step out onto the street. Lance inhales a lungful of cool air, letting the sensation flood him with relief. The reprieve from the thick, cloying atmosphere of inside the club feels like it’s already peeling away a layer of grime from his skin, scrubbing him clean from the inside. Out of the corner of his eye, Lance sees Keith run a hand through his hair, exposing his forehead. The dark tresses don’t move back to cover his face, too covered in the tacky paint that instead they stay sticking up at odd angles like sharp strokes of ink.

“Do you know where she could have gone?” Keith asks, turning to look at the crowd gathering outside the exit.

Lance had left Lucia to her new beau, content to let his sister have some time to let loose. He knew that, like him, she’d flourish with the freedom. They had always been particularly good at adapting to new situations, new surroundings. Like evolving to fit a mould rather than punching out their own shape. For Lucia, tonight was as simple as this - new town, new opportunity.

In the wake of that liberty, though, Lucia has practically evaporated, nowhere to be seen by the two boys standing idle on the side of the curb. Lance usually prides himself on being able to spot his twin. He knows he could pick her out of a lineup with his eyes closed simply by the sound of her clearing her throat. He knows that it would sound like him.

And yet as he casts his eyes around the crowd, Lance can barely catch a glimpse of chocolate brown curls or hear the soft flutter of laughter that could have come from his own tongue. He rocks forward up onto his toes to try and get a better view, bouncing in place as Keith holds his hand loosely.

“Relaaax,” he says with a wave of his hand. “She has to come out of the club sometime.”

Lance clumsily tries to sign at least half of what he’s saying, reluctant to let go of Keith’s hand, not when their fingers are slotted so snuggly between each other. But he suspects the tequila has affected him more than he’d like to admit, and so the signs come out as more of a random series of jerking motions. Keith blinks at him a moment, dark eyes wide and owlish, before he lets out a little gurgle of laughter. Lance’s head whips around at the sound, just as Keith slaps a hand over his mouth looking scandalised, as if his own throat has betrayed him by creating the noise.

“What was that?!” Lance demands.

It sounds like more of a squawk than anything, but Lance can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not after the sound Keith just made.

“Nothing!” Keith snaps defensively, cheeks flaming even in the dim light of the evening. Then, “Shut up!” when a mildly delirious smile begins to take over Lance’s face.

“I just- The way you signed that- Oh my god, it’s like you were  _ slurring  _ in ASL I just-”

Another staccato giggle manages to escape Keith’s lips before he snaps his jaw shut, wild eyes flying to Lance in shock. If Lance had to describe it, he would say it sounded like a series of whistles and clicks more than a laugh. As if Keith has a squeaky rattling engine hidden behind his voice box. Hell, it could’ve been echolocation for all he cares. All Lance knows is that-

“Oh my God, you snort when you laugh,” Lance breathes, incredulity and amusement colouring together in one strained whisper.

“I do  _ not, _ ” Keith insists. “... Only when I’m drunk.”

Lance inhales slowly, bringing his free hand up to cover his face in an attempt to hide the reckless grin blossoming across his features.

“Oh my  _ Goooooood _ .”

Keith looks like he wants to punch him, properly peeved by the way his lower lip juts out in a grumpy pout. Lance is blessed with about two seconds to appreciate it before Keith’s eyes grow as wide as dinner plates and he somehow manages to urgently whisper,  _ “Lance, look ou-” _ before a heavy weight buckles itself around Lance’s waist and flings him to the ground, tearing his hand out of Keith’s.

Lance lets out a very warped squeak of pain and surprise as he lands face down on the pavement. Lucia sits on top of him triumphantly, grinning like a cat.

“Hola, hermano.”

_ “Lucia!”  _ both Keith and Lance say in unison.

Keith says it as an explanation. Lance hisses it as an expletive. 

“Get off me!” Lance growls.

He wiggles his hips to try and shift his sister’s weight, but she might as well be a boulder or a hippo or some other object that is immovable when seated because she refuses to budge even an inch.

“Make meeee!” she sings, delighted.

Lance throws Keith a pleading look over his shoulder, begging for assistance with his eyes. Keith just shrugs and inspects his nails.

“Traitor!” Lance hisses. 

He flails helplessly for a few more seconds, trying in vain to escape his sister’s gravity. Through the crowd he can see one of the bouncers take a step towards them, eyeing Lucia warily as he makes his way over.

“Everything alright here?” he asks Keith.

He seems to be keeping his distance from Lance’s dangerously windmilling limbs.

“No it is not!” Lance shouts desperately. “She just  _ attacked me _ !”

“They’re twins,” Keith explains in a bored tone.

“Oh, okay.”

The bouncer turns his back, moving to step away from the commotion, as if Keith’s response had clarified everything.

“Hey!  _ Hey!  _ You’re supposed to help people!” Lance demands.

“Do I look like law enforcement?” the bouncer calls over his shoulder with a chuckle.

Lance gasps, a high pitched, overdramatic noise that he’s not particularly proud of. But he commits to the spectacle all the same, loudly denouncing American police officers and “The System” and how no one looks out for the little guy. The people that haven’t yet trickled down the streets on their way home give Lance a wide berth, shooting the display a wide variety of looks that range from cool disinterest to colourful confusion. Keith stands awkwardly to one side, the pads of two fingers pressed against his temple as he props his elbow on the arm slung over his chest. A few times Lance sees him mouth “I’m not with them” to people passing by. He also seems to be making a concerted effort to ignore both Lance and Lucia, though the smirk curling his mouth is a dead give away.

Lance eventually gives up with an exaggerated sigh, flopping bonelessly onto the pavement in defeat.

Lucia hums, pleased with her victory. When it’s obvious that Lance isn’t going to make a move, she swoops down, leaning forward to put her lips close to his ear.

“So listen,” she starts, and Lance knows that tone. He knows it because he’s used it on her. “I need a place that me and my new girl can stay.”

Lance groans, turning his face down to the ground. Yeah, it’s gross, and he really wishes his skin wasn’t touching the disgusting tarmac, but it’s the only option of escape from his sister right now.

“Leo,  _ por favoooooooor _ .”

Lance groans again, louder this time before turning to glare at Lucia out of the corner of his eye. She only uses his pet name when she  _ really  _ wants something. It’s like saying “please” but to the power of N, and it’s a dirty trick, and Lance hates it.

“ _ Fine.  _ You can take her to my dorm. But you are washing my sheets first thing tomorrow morning! TWICE!”

Lucia whoops in delighted triumph, and the weight on Lance’s back disappears immediately.

“Thanks, Lance!” she trills, diving into the crowd to fish out the hand of the girl she’d approached at the bar. “I already took your dorm key!”

“What-”

Lance twists ungracefully into a sitting position. He has no doubt that he looks like a beached mermaid but he can’t bring himself to care. He frantically pats his pockets, looking for his set of keys. As promised, they aren’t anywhere to be found, and Lance looks up to see Lucia waving them with her free hand as she dances away down the street, girl in tow.

“If you wake up Hunk, it is  _ your  _ problem!” 

Lucia just waves airily as the girl pulls her close by the hips. Lance groans again. This time the sound is low, a soft huff of resignation. He looks over at Keith to see the other boy watching him with some small mirth, arms folded over his chest as he bites his lip.

“You gonna help me up?” Lance asks, mildly disgruntled.

He lifts one hand by way of offering, raising it towards Keith to meet him halfway. But Keith just hums to himself, shaking his head so that a few strands of black hair fall back down towards his face.

“Hmm, nope.”

Lance makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. He tucks his feet underneath himself, raising to stand as he brushes himself off. Unfortunately for him, the glaze of UV paint has made a thin layer of grime from the street stick to him, and Lance wrinkles his nose in distaste. He brushes his hands futilely against his clothes again, succeeding only to smear the grime over a larger surface area of his body. He twists around, trying to see if any has managed to get onto his back when his eyes flick over to see Keith watching him. The shorter boy’s eyes are cast discernibly lower than Lance’s face, and Lance glances downwards to see where he’s looking.

<“Are you… Looking at my  _ ass? _ ”>

Keith’s eyes snap away from below Lance’s waist so fast it’s a wonder they aren’t spinning in their sockets. His arms cross a little tighter over his chest as he averts his gaze with a softly grumbled, “No!”.

Lance chuckles to himself. Keith is cute when he pouts. In fact he’s pretty cute whenever and Lance kinda wants to kiss him again. But he’s drunk and covered in slime and muck and quite frankly isn’t feeling like he’s oozing sex appeal right now, so he leaves it. Lance can be patient when he wants to be.

Reaching out, he gently takes Keith by the elbow, leading him a little way away from the steadily thinning crowd. Keith follows silently, his body pliant and gait obedient. They don’t go far, maybe twenty metres, but it’s enough for Lance to be able to get a better grip on his bearings. He maybe not be completely drunk, but the world definitely has a certain kilter to it that can only be achieved through a bottle and a willingness to gasp down a burning taste.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you home,” Lance mumbles.

Keith nods quietly. He pauses a moment, watching as Lance sways unsteadily on his feet. A second later and he’s hooking one arm through Lance’s, his other hand gripping the taller boy’s bicep. The gesture seems like it’s been made to support them both: Keith can prop Lance up with one arm, and hold on to Lance with his other hand should Keith fall. 

They slip into step beside each other, almost like a three legged race, heads tilted towards one another, and they make their way wordlessly back towards campus. It’s not a long walk, though a taxi would have been preferable. Lance can feel a dull ache in the balls of his feet from standing too long, a low, throbbing sensation that’s been muted by the alcohol. He’s sure it’ll feel worse in the morning, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Lance. Tonight’s Lance has much more durable things to deal with. Like the way that Keith’s face is so close it’s almost tucked into the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, or how from this distance he can almost count every single one of Keith’s dark eyelashes. So the walk back to campus is quiet but not uncomfortable. Lance feels as if too many things have happened for the past twenty four hours, too many memories flooding his brain until it’s no longer processing what it  _ is _ , just how it  _ feels _ . And it feels… Nice.

They’re not very graceful, the pair of them, clutching onto one another as they stumble home in a rolling tangle of lean limbs and light laughter. At one point Lance manages to trip over his own foot, the toe of his shoe catching the hem of his pants, almost sending him sprawling. The firm grip of Keith’s hand circling his upper arm keeps him from falling completely off kilter, a solid weight drawing him back into the shorter boy’s orbit. It’s only when the dark looming silhouette of the admin building crests into the skyline that Lance’s mind finally catches up with him.

“Aaaah crap,” he mumbles to himself.

His unsteady gait comes to a stuttered stop, his body swaying as it fights to grasps the right equilibrium. Keith stops too, turning to Lance with a question in his eyes.

“I uhhhh, don’t have anywhere to sleep.”

Keith’s head tips comically to one side, as if it’s suddenly gotten too burdensome on his own shoulders. The message is clear though -  _ What? _

<”Lucia,”> Lance signs sloppily. ,<”Girl. My room.”>

“Oh!” Keith’s eyes widen in understanding, his voice coming out as a soft breath.

He shakes his head a little, probably to clear away the haze of alcohol, screwing his eyes up tight as a few more strands of hair fall into his face.

“Ummmm…”

Keith looks like he’s wrestling something internally. He chews his lip thoughtfully as his grip on Lance’s arm tightens just a fraction, eyes flitting between campus and Lance’s face.

“You could always… Stay at mine.”

_ <”What?”> _

Lance isn’t sure he’s hearing correctly. Keith is watching him hesitantly, his lower lip trapped firmly between his teeth, dark eyes glittering in the street lights. He doesn’t say anything, just watches. As if repeating the suggestion is too dangerous, too tangible for either of them.

Lance gulps, not caring if Keith notices. He’s nervous, alright? His mouth suddenly feels like sand, and it’s not because of the tequila.

“I have a sofa,” Keith tacks on helpfully.

“Oh. Right. Right right right right, sure. Sofa sounds good.”

Lance nods once, firmly. It’s as much an assurance to himself as it is to Keith. The other boy hesitates for a second, his hold on Lance’s arm going slack before he lets go and threads their fingers together. Lance’s jaw drops belatedly, a slow reaction as his mouth forms a little ‘O’. And then Keith is tugging him forwards, letting Lance skip a few steps to get his feet underneath him before falling in tempo by his side.

Lance hopes Keith can’t feel his pulse leaping in his fingertips. He’s sure his palms are sweaty, but most of him is sweaty and so is Keith, so it doesn’t really matter he guesses. Keith keeps his face turned away, making sure to stay half a step ahead of the taller boy so that their eyes don’t meet. Little good it does him - Lance can see the flush creeping up the back of his neck, and it makes him grin smugly to himself. He resists the urge to lean forward and press a gentle kiss there.

Keith steers them effortlessly across campus, two shadows slipping through the early hours of the morning, silent as death. But for Lance, the blood pumping in his ears is loud. Louder than loud, it’s  _ roaring. _ A steady mantra of  _ “you’re going back to Keith’s, you’re going back to Keith’s, you’re going back to Keith’s” _ percolating in his head like a prayer. Keith doesn’t let go of his hand, even as they approach the door to his dorm. If anything, it gets tighter, holding Lance fast and steady.

_ Don’t let go,  _ it whispers. 

So Lance’s holds on tight. They tiptoe up the stairs, trying not to flounder in the darkness of the corridor. When they reach Keith’s door, he finally drops Lance’s hand to fish in his pocket for the keys. Lance stands behind him patiently. In this position, with Keith’s head tilted down to search for his keychain, the small strip of skin at the nape of Keith’s neck, the one that Lance had been admiring earlier, is exposed. Thick black hair curls up at the tips, revealing pale skin that looks blue in the lack of light. And Lance can’t help himself. 

He discards his hesitancy from earlier - if all else fails he can blame the alcohol at the end of it all. Rejecting the trepidation that sits listlessly under his skin, Lance ducks his head down and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss against Keith’s neck.

The shorter boy goes as still as a statue, his hands freezing where they are tucked into his pockets. Lance ghosts his hands over Keith’s hips, letting them settle just over where the skin lies thinnest over the bone, palms moulding over the rolling jutt as if they were tailoring themselves to fit. Keith doesn’t move an inch, motionless as rock whilst the warmth of Lance’s mouth seeps into his neck. Lance grows impatient. He opens his mouth, letting just a the barest hint of teeth graze over Keith’s skin, and it works like magic.

Keith shivers powerfully, his entire body trembling with the movement. Lance smirks against his nape, the tips of his fingers digging into Keith’s hips just that little bit harder. Keith rocks his pelvis into the touch, angling his hips so that his back arches in a smooth curve.

His shoulder blades are pressed into Lance’s chest, and when the taller boy laughs, he feels the vibrations strong through his shirt.

“Shuddup,” Keith whispers with a huff.

He finally manages to find his key. Pulling it from his pocket, Keith slots it into the keyhole, giving the door a firm shouldering to open it. The two of them fall through clumsily, a drunken mess of hushed smiles and scrambling hands. Keith snorts loudly as Lance falls on his ass, prompting the other boy to press a finger to his lips.

“Sssssh!” Lance whispers loudly.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Oh  _ har har, _ Keith. Very funny.”

Keith grins impishly at him, fumbling for the light switch. He flicks it on and Lance lets out a startled yelp, twisting awkwardly on his feet as he crosses his arms haphazardly over his eyes.

“Argh!  _ Light!” _

Keith snickers to himself as Lance swings his body around in an uncoordinated attempt to get away from the lights of the small kitchenette. His foot catches on the edge of his trousers again, sending him toppling heavily to the floor. He lets out a garbled cry as his shoulder connects with the dusty woodgrain, one elbow hiked up high across his opposing ear. The shock of it jolts Lance’s chest a little bit, and he thinks there may be one of two splinters lodged in his skin, a slight sting worming its way through the curtain of delay that the alcohol has afforded him. Lance feels like he’s fallen harder than his inebriated mind can process right now. 

Keith slaps a hand over his mouth to abruptly halt the laughter threatening to spill out, the noise warping into a series of muffled wheezes and huffs as his shoulders shake with mirth.

“Were you planning to spend the  _ entire  _ night on the floor?” he asks between breaths.

“Shuddup,” Lance slurs.

He drags himself into a sitting position, head rolling as Keith’s apartment straightens itself in his swimming vision. He hears the running of a tap and tilts his head up to catch sight of Keith filling two glasses of water underneath the stream. The violinist makes his way around the small island, dropping down in front of Lance and holding one glass out to him. Lance takes it gratefully, tipping his head back and gulping down the clear liquid as if he’s a dying man. He signs a quick  _ thank you  _ with one hand as well. Just because he’s drunk doesn’t mean he doesn’t have manners. And hey, there are many advantages to ASL, it seems. Like being able to speak whilst your mouth is busy.

But that’s… That’s a thought for another, much more sober day.

When he reaches the bottom of the glass he pulls it away from his lips, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks up to see Keith doing the same and… oh.

The position they’re sitting in is vaguely reminiscent of how they were earlier. Lance can even see the door behind Keith, squaring around his outline like a picture frame. The memory comes flitting back to him. How Keith’s hands trembled as they traced the corner of Lance’s jaw, how he gazed up at Lance in shock, eyes wide and doe-like.

“Finished?” Keith asks, nodding to Lance’s empty glass.

He returns the nod slowly, a lazy smile hanging on his lips. Keith takes the glass from his loose grasp. Instead of standing to take them to the sink the way Lance had thought he would, Keith puts both glasses on the floor next to them. 

He just… Studies Lance’s face. Just for a moment. 

It’s nowhere near how intimate they’ve been all night, alcohol enhancing a cacophony of hormones and allowing them enough courage to run their hands all over each other.

And yet, just sitting like this, no conversation, not even touching each other, Lance’s feels utterly vulnerable. Stripped bare, as if Keith’s looking into his very soul through the windows of his eyes.

Normally, Lance would look away, or start talking loudly, or do  _ something _ to distract Keith’s attention. To divert that intense gaze somewhere other than at him. But he doesn’t. No this time. Maybe it’s the alcohol or the atmosphere or the fact that it’s just the two of them, but for some reasons, Lance poises himself. Lifts his chin a little higher, squares his shoulders just so, meeting Keith’s stare head on.

They sit there for a moment, both watching each other evenly, neither one making a move to speak. It’s… Different, that’s for sure. Lance can’t help but let his mind wander. 

He wonders if this is how it is for Keith - No sound, no frivolous embellishment, no need to stake a flag in the ground. Just… Being in the moment. Letting what you know and how you feel guide you.

So that’s what Lance does.

With shaking fingers, Lance begins lifting his hands, thinking hard about what he’s trying to say and how to string the signs together.

_ Don’t think,  _ his mind whispers.  _ Just feel. _

_ <”Thank you for tonight.”> _

Keith’s lips part a little in surprise. It’s not like Lance hasn’t tried signing without speaking before. But this is the first time he’s actively  _ tried  _ to.

_ <”I had a lot of fun.”> _

Keith grins, all the mischief from earlier gone. It’s a genuine smile, something that warms his entire face and softens his sharp features.

_ <”Me too.”> _

Lance feels like he’s glowing, and not because of the UV paint. He feels a trickle of something warm and fuzzy curl around his heart, making a home there, heating him from the inside out. Keith reaches out a little clumsily, the alcohol causing his usually steady arm to sway. He traces one fingertip along Lance’s exposed collarbone. The touch is featherlight, and it electrifies every nerve ending. Lance catches his breath, staying completely stock still as the calloused pad of Keith’s finger maps a path over his skin. It’s such a simple gesture, so innocent. Lance feels overwhelmed with the intimacy. The way they’re sat, so close yet barely grazing each other’s legs, it sends his other senses into overdrive as they clamour to compensate for the absence of touch. Lance watches closely as Keith’s eyelashes flutter, gliding with his midnight eyes as they follow the movement of his finger. His scent is a kaleidoscopic potion of salty sweat, cheap acrylic from the paint, and something else hiding underneath the cloak of smells. Something woody and sweet, musky and intoxicating. Lance shifts his weight ever so slightly, leaning in a fraction to inhale deeply. Keith tips his head closer as well. The scent gets stronger, coating the back of his throat and making Lance’s mouth water.

_ <”You smell… Really good.”> _

“Hm?” Keith hums.

He seems thoroughly distracted with tracing his fingertips over Lance’s sensitive collarbones, pausing when he gets to the well of Lance’s throat and watching as he shivers.

_ <”You.”> _ Lance repeats.  _ <”Smell good. I like it.”> _

“Oh.” Keith pauses to screw his face up like he’s thinking really hard. It’s unfair how adorable it is. “It’s cologne Shiro got for me. Jean something.”   
“Jean Paul Gaultier?” Lance says aloud. He whistles low and long in appreciation. “Shiro’s got good taste.”

Keith huffs out a little chuckle. 

“I’ll get you some.”

“Nah don’t worry about it. I’ll just steal yours.”

“Stealing my cologne already?” Keith quirks an eyebrow as he traces his finger up the column of Lance’s throat to line his jaw. “At least buy me dinner first.”

“I will,” Lance blurts at once. “I mean it. I’ll take you out, show you off, buy you dinner and everything. The whole nine yards! I’ll treat you  _ right _ .”

Keith’s finger stops in its ministrations. He fixes Lance with a bemused stare, and Lance swallows his breath immediately. 

Shit, had he said too much? He knew he had a tendency to get overzealous when he was drunk, but what if he’d scared Keith off already? Shit shit shit, he was bad at this. Lance gulps visibly, blinking rapidly to try to refocus his vision. He’s prepared for Keith to laugh or get up or leave, for him to do  _ something  _ that will make Lance’s heart sink all the way down to his butt. 

What he’s not prepared for is for Keith to take a deep shaky breath, peek out at him from under those thick lashes and mumble in the most vulnerable voice Lance has ever heard.

“Yeah?”

Lance inflates like a balloon, that warm glow giving his smile fresh buoyancy. His fingers feel strong as he curls them into a fist and pats down in the air twice.

_ <”Yes.”> _

Keith’s smile twinkles more than the damn Time Square Christmas tree.

“Alright then, Lance,” he says a little breathily. “Sweep me off my feet.”

Unfortunately, in his intoxicated state Lance’s brain has a little trouble processing things that are meant to be metaphorical. Which is why he spins awkwardly into a crouching position and tips his weight forwards, hooking one arm underneath the back of Keith’s knees and the other around his waist.

“Oh my god!” Keith yells with a cracking voice, arms flying around Lance’s neck in a desperate flurry. “I didn’t mean  _ literally!” _

Lance really tries to lift Keith, pushing with his legs as he attempts to stand up. “Attempts” being the operative word. He over-balances as he manages to stand up straight, reaching his full height for approximately half a second before he leans too far backward and lets out a muffled squeal. He twists crudely to the side to avoid slipping a disc, sending the two of them sprawling rather clunkily over the back of Keith’s sofa. They land in… A pretzel, really. That’s the only word for it. Keith’s leg is hooked somehow over Lance’s hips, Lance’s arm crumpled underneath him as Keith continues to hold fast around his neck. They blink at each other for a moment, stunned, before Keith tips his head back and lets out a raucous peal of laughter. Lance opens his mouth to apologise when a muffled banging comes from to opposite end of the room.

“Can you gaylords  _ shut up? _ ” comes an exasperated voice, thick with sleep.

Lance slaps a hand over Keith’s mouth, ignoring the way his eyes blow wide as he presses a finger to his own lips. He jabs his index in the direction of the wall, and Keith’s eyes follow, his eyebrows rising a fraction. Which is when Lance feels a hot, wet slickness against his palm. His gaze snaps back to Keith’s just in time to take in the crinkling at the corners of the other boy’s eyes as they glitter with mischief.

“Nice try,” Lance hisses, speaking directly to Keith’s gaze. “But I grew up with Lucia, or did you forget?”

Keith huffs out an indignant breath through his nose, waiting patiently as Lance removes his hand. They’re kind of lying at an awkward angle on the sofa. Lance almost flips upside down as his torso hangs precariously off the edge, and it’s an effort for the two to right themselves without going toppling to the floor.

“So um, this is the sofa,” Keith starts. 

He pats his thighs distractedly, eyes roaming around the room like they’re on a mission.

“The bedroom’s down the hall. You can take the bed.”

“What? No, I’ll take the couch,” Lance responds immediately.

Keith opens his mouth to protest but Lance waves his hands in his face, cutting him off before he can even begin.

“Uhbububububu NO. I am not stealing your bed. I am sleeping right here with this-” Lance breaks off to pat around furiously for some sort of cover. He finds it when his fingers catch the fringed edge of a blanket, and he holds it up triumphantly in his fist. 

“THIS blanket!”

Keith shakes his head, a glimmer of a smirk on his lips.

“It’s really hard to read your lips when I’m drunk,” he mumbles before letting out a giggle. Keith  _ giggles _ . “But I think you’re saying something about on sleeping on the couch? Sooooo, I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”

There’s a shimmer of hope in Keith’s eyes, and it’s pointed directly at Lance.

“Yeah… See you.”

In a moment of boldness, Lance reaches forward, cupping Keith jaw as delicately as spun glass as he presses a soft press to his lips. Keith utters out a small sigh, his fingers weaving lazily into Lance’s hair as if it’s second nature. It’s a chaste kiss, by far the least heated of any they’ve shared that night. But there’s something about it that leaves Lance feeling raw, exposed like a loose wire. When he pulls back he can already see Keith smiling.

“Good night, Lance,” he breathes, letting his hands slip from Lance’s short locks down to settle light on his hip.

“Night, Keith,” Lance wheezes out.

It’s such a gentle moment. Quiet in the completely ethereal way that the 4am hour is, when the rest of the world feels disconnected. Like a computer that hasn’t quite booted up yet. There’s a surety in the stillness, an intangible solidity that leaves Lance feeling whole and content even as Keith stands up from the sofa and pads his way softly down the hall.

Lance lies down on his side, pulling the blanket haphazardly over himself. His skin is still sticky, and he feels like he needs to bathe for about 5 hours to fully clean off the muck from the club. But for once he lets it go, happy to simply fall asleep whilst the unnameable sense of appeasement continues to cradle him like a hug.

Even as the first few rays of sun peek out from over the horizon, dyeing the sky in shades of grey and cream, Lance falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

*

 

He does not wake up with a smile on his face.

No. Lance wakes up to the rough call of someone nudging him with their toe. He rolls over as much as the tight space of the sofa will allow him, tucking his head stubbornly into the pillow to escape the tenacious light that’s flooding the room. The person poking him delivers a well-aimed jab to his butt and Lance groans loudly, displeased.

“As much as I empathise, you have to get up,” comes a gravelly voice.

Lance peers blearily out over the top of his blanket armour. He’s met with the sight of a very scruffy Keith, thoroughly sleep-crumpled with his hair sticking out in every direction and his eyes not even half open. He’s scrubbing at his face with one- Okay, it’s not a hand. It’s a sleeve.

Lance sits up properly to get a better look, and sure enough, Keith is wearing a huge jumper that utterly dwarfs him. The sleeves completely cover his hands, and it is with one of these paws that Keith is halfheartedly rubbing the sleep dust away from his eyes. He looks so cute that Lance has to take a deep steadying breath before he plunges his face back into the sofa cushion and proceeds to scream at the top of his lungs. With the plump pillow obstructing his mouth, the shriek sounds more like the dying wheeze of a rapidly deflating balloon, but it doesn’t stop Lance from continuing until his lungs run out of air. Without being able to hear it, Keith clearly thinks he’s just gone back to sleep. In retaliation he leans forward to try and shake Lance awake with his hands. The feeling of Keith’s jumper swathed fingers touching his shoulders has Lance jerking around swiftly with surprise. The movement catches Keith off guard, and he stumbles a little until he’s almost falling on top of Lance. He catches himself quickly, one hand thrown out to steady himself on the back of the sofa. Lance’s breath hitches as Keith’s face hovers over his, eyes wide and glassy as the world seems to grind to a halt.

The moment shatters as Keith rears back, throwing his arm across his body to nestle his nose and mouth in the crook of his arm.

“Oh my god, Lance!” he cries. “You seriously need to brush your teeth. Your breath could knock out a horse!”

Lance makes an offended squawking noise, throwing the blanket off himself as he sits bolt upright, ready to defend his honor. But without the safety of the blanket encapsulating his body, Lance takes one breath and cringes. Keith’s right, he really does smell.

“Ugh, I feel like I need to shower for 8 years.”

“You look like you need to shower for 8 years.”

“Rude!”

Keith winces, screwing up his face into a Picasso painting. 

“Ugh, it’s too early to lip-read,” he groans.

But Lance is committed. He finger spells the word R-U-D-E  before pointing at Keith with a hearty glare. Keith shoots him a lopsided smile, lifting his arms above his head so that the sleeves fall away to reveal his hands as he signs out the correct gesture, curling a finger against his cheek and pouting. Lance copies it as best he can, digging his pointer finger into the thick flesh of his cheek before grimacing a pulling away. His skin feels  _ horrible.  _ It’s usual softness has been replaced with a foreign texture that somehow succeeds in being rough and sticky at the same time. Keith snorts softly and Lance looks over to see him covering his mouth with one hand.

“No, like this.”

He reaches out, circling Lance’s wrist with his grip before lifting his hand up and positioning his fingers into the correct place. Lance repeats the sign, keeping his finger crooked appropriately as he scowls. Keith gives him an affirming nod.

“Rude,” he confirms.

Lance sticks his tongue out at him.

Keith just chuckles, turning his back to make his way over into the kitchen.

“Do you want breakfast?” he offers, voice still raspy with sleep. “I’ve got-”

Keith pauses at the sound of the fridge door opening, and Lance pokes his head over the top of the sofa to look at him. Even from this distance, Lance can see that Keith’s fridge is barren. The shelves contain approximately half a cucumber, a mostly empty jar of mayonnaise, and not much else.

“I’ve got water in the tap,” Keith finishes with a sigh.

Lance’s stomach growls embarrassingly loudly, and he’s kind of grateful that Keith can’t hear it. The timing could have been considered impolite. That and it sounds like a choking motor engine. Lance rubs his belly consolingly, dreaming of all the baked goods Hunk could be cramming in his face right now. 

There’s a lot that can be said about a good breakfast, but when it comes to eating continental baked goods, Hunk was the real MVP. Lance could gorge himself for days on the buttery, flaky pastries that seemed to melt in his mouth were he allowed. As generous as Hunk was, he had an iron grip on controlling Lance’s vice. He would let no more than four pastries pass Lance’s lips before he’d announce that the pianist was cut off or he’d make himself sick. All the puppy dog eyes in the world couldn’t get him to budge, and oh had Lance tried. 

The only thing he couldn’t seem to get right was Lance’s favourite - Pastelitos de guayaba. That gift had been reserved for Lance’s own doppelganger.

Which reminds him!

“Keith!”

Lance scrambles to push his torso over the back of the sofa, waving his arms at Keith. When the other boy doesn’t notice him, Lance bundles up the blanket and chucks it full force at Keith’s head. The dark-haired boy yelps, shoving the blanket out of his face as he turns to stare at Lance with wide, disgruntled eyes.

_ <”Breakfast at mine?”> _

Keith scowls melts into gratitude. If Lance didn’t know better, he’d say Keith looked like he was about to cry with relief. Probably just the after effects of last night’s tequila though.

“That sounds great.”

Lance grins, awarding himself another victory.

“Ummm, I’m gonna shower though,” Keith continues, itching at his skin.

There’s a thin spread of grim and cracked paint covering his skin much the same way as Lance’s, and the taller boy grimaces at the mutual sentiment.

“Ugh, yeah, me too. Meet me there in 20?”

“Sound good.”

Lance stands up, gripping one wrist and stretching his arms above his head and he presses his hips forward. His joints make a satisfying popping sound, the muscles leaking out tension from where they had been crammed into the small seat of the sofa. He gives his arms a little shake for good measure, feeling the tendons pull and stretch as they accommodate the movement before starting towards the door. He’s just reached out to turn the handle when he feels a loose weight tug at his arm. Lance stops, twisting around to see Keith latched onto his hand, looking very unsure of himself. 

He’s shuffling on his feet and his shoulders are trembling, and he’s chewing his lip in the absurdly furious way that makes Lance want to run his thumb along it just so that Keith will release it from his teeth long enough for him to steal a kiss.

But Lance is also really hyper aware that he hasn’t brushed his teeth in about 20 hours and yeah, he feels super gross with the remainder of the paint clinging to his skin like tar.

So instead of kissing Keith like he wants to, he just squeezes his hand tightly, letting a gentle smile play across his lips. Keith peeks up at him from behind the curtain of hair that’s falling into his eyes. Lance lets him hide behind just this once.

“See you in twenty,” he murmurs.

Keith smiles shyly at him before releasing his hand, and Lance holds his gaze as the door closes behind him, the beginnings of joy tingling his insides.

 

*

 

Legging it across campus back to his dorm isn’t actually all that bad. 

The sharp sting of the cool air whipping his cheeks is refreshing, and chases away the last coats of alcohol haze from his mind, alerting his sluggish brain.

It’s only when Lance gets back to his apartment does he remember one crucial detail from the night before.

Hunk is kind enough to buzz him into the building, and subsequently the dorm. But when Lance throws open his bedroom door, he becomes all too keenly aware of just how things went down at the club. He’s greeted with a pair of bodies wrapped around each other, sloppily concealed with a sheet, as if it was thrown over them like an afterthought. 

Lance makes a strangled noise, slapping his hand firmly over his eyes.

“OH MY GOD!”

“LEANDRO OH MY  _ GOD! Don’t you knock?” _

“Knock?? This is  _ my room!” _

“You  _ knew _ I was bringing a girl back here!”   
“I thought she’d be gone by the morning, Lucia. What the _ hell? _ ”

“Get out, idiot!”

“YOU get out!”

“What are you two saying?”

A silvery voice cuts the screaming match short, and there’s a rustling of fabric as Lance assumes the girl Lucia brought back to his dorm sits up in the bed. He doesn’t dare take his hand away from his eyes, refusing to even part his fingers to chance a sneak peek. His palm stays firmly glued over the bridge of his nose as he tries his hardest to scowl at his sister around the obstruction.

“I was informing this  _ cabron _ about how it’s polite to  _ knock  _ before entering a room.”

“And I was telling the She-Devil that this is MY room.”

The girl makes a humming sound, the noise tinged with amusement.

“You two really are twins.”

“Dont’ compare me to her,” Lance growls at the very exact moment Lucia hisses, “Don’t compare me to him.”

The girl just snickers. Lance loves Lucia, he does. But right now, he really just wants a shower and he wants to be out of these clothes from last night. The thought of Keith coming over is make his chest do a weird constricting thing and he’d like to process that  _ alone  _ in the comfort of his room, thank you very much.

“Look! I am turning around and taking my hand away,” he announces, ignoring the noise of protest from Lucia.

He turns in a slow half circle, feet shuffling against the threadbare carpet. Once he’s safely facing in the opposite direction, Lance takes his hand away from his eyes, waving it above his head a little for the girls to acknowledge.

“I wanted to shower,” he explains. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t look this good completely naturally.”

He hears Lucia scoff behind him.

“If by ‘look good’ you mean look like the aftermath of bad drugs and a pride parade,” she chides.

Lance ignores it in favour of getting to shower quicker. His mouth tastes and feels like he’s swallowed a handful of sand, and he’d kill for his electric toothbrush right about now. His teeth feel  _ furry.  _

“Keith’s coming over for breakfast,” he tries a different tact.

“Oh? Is that your boyfriend?” the girl asks.

There’s more rustling, and Lance can only hope that they’re getting dressed as they speak.

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Keith? The cute one with dark hair that’s totally into you?”

Lance chokes just a tiny bit.

“He’s not  _ totally into me _ . We’ve only- We just kissed for the first time yesterday.”

The admission has Lance’s ears burning. He’s half expecting a snarky comment from Lucia, but surprisingly, one doesn’t come. She’s probably ogling the hot girl getting dressed, he thinks.

“Oh he’s totally into you,” the girl continues. “I saw the way he was grinding up and down you like a pole. Boy’s got moves.”

Lance bites his own tongue to stop himself from inhaling it. The memory of Keith rolling their hips together comes back to hit him with all the force of a freight train. Keith’s blunt nails scraping across the back of his neck as he pulls their faces close, Keith’s ragged breath as Lance’s hands find his hips, how he’d tipped his head back to expose the pale column of his throat whilst glowing paint had rained down on them and how all Lance had wanted to do was latch onto the revealed skin with carnal ferocity.

Okay, yeah, so maybe tequila had been a bit of a bold choice.

“And now he’s coming over for breakfast,” Lucia tacks on. “Is it safe to say your night was as good as mine?”

Lance hears the girl chuckle again, and he groans loudly from a place deep in his soul.

“Oh my god, get a room.”

“We’ve GOT a room,” Lucia fired back.

“Get a room that  _ isn’t mine _ .”

Lucia clicks her tongue disapprovingly, but Lance hears her stand up all the same.

“I don’t think we’ve actually been introduced,” the silvery voice says again, and the girl walks around Lance into his field of vision.

Her eye makeup is a little smudged and her hair isn’t sitting as straight was in the club, but considering how late they’d come home, she doesn’t look half bad for a “morning after” snapshot. She’s wearing Lucia’s playsuit from the night before, Lance notes. It looks good on her but still… That was pretty gay, even by Lucia’s standards.

“I”m Kira,” the girl says, holding out her hand.

Lance takes it, giving a polite shake as she surveys him cooly.

As if she hasn’t just nailed his sister  _ in his bed _ . Lance uses every ounce of his willpower not to wrinkle his nose.

“Alright, Lance, I’m stripping your bed,” Lucia calls from behind him. “I’m dressed, too.”

Lance lets out a gust of breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

“Thanks,” he manages, giving her a weak smile.

Lucia shrugs nonchalantly.

“A deal’s a deal. I get your bed, I wash your sheets.”

Lance nods sagely, shrugging the cardigan off his shoulders and chucking it sideways into the laundry basket as he makes his way over to the dresser.

“We’re gonna grab some breakfast, too.”

“Don’t eat all of the pastelitos!” Lance cries immediately. “I want Keith to try them!”

Lucia pauses in the doorway, turning back to give Lance a quizzical look. Lance bites any retort that had been dancing behind his lips in two.

“Oh?” she queries, a smile hiking its way up the corners of her mouth.

And dammit, Lance knows what’s coming, because that’s  _ his  _ smile. That’s THE smile he uses, so he knows what it’s for and all of the situations in which it is applicable. And this situation fits the bill like a glove.

“Pastelitos are your favourite,” Lucia says in a sing song voice.

Lance is hyper aware that Kira is watching him too, an amused smirk curling at her mouth.

“Nononono. You shut up, Lucia.”

“I’m just saying.”

Lucia graces him with one last lingering look before taking Kira’s hand and steering the two of them out of Lance’s room, arms full and round with the bedsheets. Lance sighs as they disappear from the doorway, one part exhaustion, two parts relief.

He decides to put his mind on autopilot, letting himself zone out as he turns on the hot stream of the shower. The steady fall of water drowns out the thoughts that whirl about his head in a flurry of tangled emotions and worn out calming techniques that his old therapist taught him. 

It feels good to scrub the dirt from his skin. The action focuses him, letting him relax into just the sensation of grime spinning away down the plug hole along with the worries that pester him.

Last night was… Nice. Really nice.

Lance refuses to let his traitorous brain ruin it for him by plaguing his thoughts with stupid, inconsequential anxieties.

It’s the alcohol. Lance knows it’s the alcohol. This used to happen with Lucia as well. It’s a depressive after all, and Lance feels the subsequent sobriety usually comes with the pitfall of enhanced anxiety. But he doesn’t let himself give into it. Not today.

Keith is coming to have breakfast with him. Because he wants to, not because he feels like he has to. He grabbed Lance’s hand this morning because he felt like it, not because he wanted to tell Lance how much he’d annoyed him the night before. 

Lance repeats these words like a mantra, soothing the rousing plague of his mental health. The water runs in rivulets down his skin, tracing over his veins close enough that he could believe they would merge, transforming him into a living breathing body of water. It feels good, to let the shower wash away the night before as he breathes in a lungful of steam. The way it clears his head is enough for Lance to put out one hand, bracing his weight against the bathroom wall as he inhales deeply once more. 

Once he’s turned off the jet and towelled off, Lance throws on a pair of loose fitting jeans with rips in the knee and a wide neck T-shirt. The long slash of the neck hole means that the shirt occasionally shifts down his arm to one side, exposing the shining round knobble of his shoulder. It’s not really seductive, but it could be with the right smile, and Lance decides that it’s perfect. He leaves the comfort of his room to head into the kitchen. As he approaches, he hears the light melody of a familiar tune floating over the radio, and a small smile shifts over his features.

Lucia is already singing along, her hips swaying slightly as she stirs a pan of scrambled eggs. Kira watches her steadily from the table, chin propped up by laced fingers as she bounces her head slightly in time with the beat. Lance grabs a few of the pastelitos from the fridge, chucking them in the oven to warm whilst he waits for Keith to arrive. He hums along with the nostalgic tune, grinning at Lucia as she turns to shoot him a genuine smile and a cheeky wink.

It’s all the signal Lance needs, and he grabs a wooden spoon off the counter just as the chorus swells. Lucia immediately raises the utensil she’s using to stir the eggs and shoves herself away from the counter, shouldering into Lance so that they stand back to back.

_ ‘Por eso yo te quieroooo! Tanto que no sé, como explicaaaaaar. Lo que sientooo.” _

Kira snorts out a giggle from the table, her hands cupping her mouth as she watches the twins sing into their pseudo microphones in perfect unison. Lucia looks over, blowing a kiss as Kira wiggles dainty fingers at her. Lance grins. Lucia seems really happy, so that means that’s he’s really happy.

A quick rapping knock comes from the door, and Lance skips towards it, his knees bouncing as he continues to keep up with the rolling beat.

Opening the door, he sees Keith’s eyes go through a short series of emotions. Hope, surprise, and now currently, thorough confusion. Lance is aware he’s swaying back and forth in the doorway, holding a wooden spoon to his mouth as he sings along to the radio. The whooping laughter in the background only encourages him.

Instead of pausing, he grabs Keith’s hand, pulling over the threshold so that he can follow Lance him into the apartment. They step into the kitchen hand in hand, and Keith’s eyebrows shoot way up as he sees Lucia and Kira moving together, arms wrapped around one another. Lance lifts the joined hands up past Keith’s ear and over his head, forcing his body into a turn that Keith has little choice but to complete. He spins on the spot, looking more than a little embarrassed, and Lance has to stop the grin that’s threatening to take over his face. He keeps bobbing along to the beat, still clasping Keith’s hand in his, moving their arms to and fro as he tries to encourage the other to dance.

Keith is looking nervously between Lance and the girls, his feet barely moving save for a few unconfident steps. He seems to be becoming rapidly more agitated as the seconds tick on, and Lance slows his dancing, matching Keith’s look of concern with one of his own.

“Lance, I- I can’t-”

Lance suddenly realises what’s wrong. This isn’t like yesterday. There’s no bass for Keith to hear.

“Hey,” Lance gets Keith’s attention with a gentle tug on his hand. “Just follow me.”

Keith watches him for a moment, features pulled into a scowl. It’s something Lance is beginning to recognise as a default expression for when Keith feels doubt. He rolls on the balls of his feet, moving his hips deliberately in time with the beat as he nods his head, keeping Keith’s gaze the whole time. Keith’s head dips a fraction. It seems like an unconscious act, but he starts nodding as well, dark hair fanning around his face.

“Yeah, that’s it!”

Lance grins wildly, making his movements bigger, his gestures wider. Keith tries his best to hide his smile, tucking his chin down as he pointedly stares at his shambling feet, but Lance catches the tell tale act and how Keith’s mouth turns up just a small amount around the edges.

He lifts their hands again, and this time when Keith spins he lets out a brief chuckle of laughter. He sounds more exhausted than anything, but it’s a laugh and Lance will take it. 

The song peters out, guitars fading into nothing as the boisterous voice of the radio broadcaster takes over. It’s in his native tongue, and Lance feels a soft pang of homesickness at the familiarity and recognition springing forth in his mind, demanding attention, but he tunes it out in favour of watching Keith. His cheeks have turned a beautiful dusky pink, sitting high on his cheekbones as he releases his hand to stuff it into the safety of his pockets.

“What was that?” he asks. He sounds a little breathless.

“Juanes! He’s one of my favourites!”

Keith frowns, his mouth twisting into a little pout. Lance finger spells the name for him.

“Joo-an-ess?” 

Keith sounds out the word, lips moving as if he’s swirling wine around his mouth to taste.

It’s such a horrible pronunciation, but somehow the way that Keith tries it has Lance’s heart glowing like a sunbeam.

_ <”Almost. Sounds like ‘one is’.> _

“Juanes,” Keith tries again.

It’s far from perfect, but Keith attempting to speak Spanish has all sorts of thoughts running around Lance’s head like a tumble dryer, and with almost frantic urgency he spins around to attack the oven.

Lucia coughs loudly from across the room and Lance shoots her a glare.

“Shuddup,” he mumbles, furiously pawing at the tray of pastries with an oven glove.

“Oh, I didn’t say  _ anything _ ,” Lucia drawls.

Lance pointedly ignores her.

He sets the tray on the metal gridded hob before grabbing two plates out of the cupboard. He quickly deposits two pastries on each plate before moving across to the table and setting them down. Turning to Keith, he throws his arms out wide, puffing his chest up as he clicks his heels together in a grand presentation.

“Keith, my guy, you are about to experience the height of culinary excellence!”

Lance bows deeply with a flourish of his arms. He hears the scrape of chair legs against the linoleum and looks up to see Keith taking a seat, watching him with a barely contained smile. At least it looks like a smile. It could have passed for a grimace though.

“Is he always like this?” Keith asks Lucia.

She shrugs. “You tell me, you’re the one hanging out with him.”

“Making out with him, you mean,” Kira mutters, and Lance’s cheeks burn.

He can only hope that Keith wasn’t looking at her lips.

Lance pulls out his own chair, settling into his seat beside Keith. He holds his breath as the other boy slowly picks up his pastelito, eyeing it from several angles before he brings it to his lips. Lance’s shoulders inch up to his ears as Keith bites through the pastry, taking a second to chew as he considers the taste. His eyebrows rocket towards his hairline, and he Keith holds the pastelito a little way out in front of him like he’s checking the contents for something.

His eyes turn on Lance, wide with wonder and glittering in the fluorescent lights of the kitchen.

Without being able to get a word out around the pastry in his mouth, Keith slaps the tabletop repeatedly with his fingers as he tries desperately to communicate with Lance through his eyes. Lance grins. Keith’s reaction is better than he could have hoped for.

“Good?”

Keith signs “yes” again and again, fist pumping down in short sharp motions.

“They’re Lance’s favourite food,” Lucia explains. “If it weren’t for mama, he’d be  _ gordito. _ Fat as a pancake.”

“It’s  _ flat  _ as a pancake, moron.”

“No, that’s not right. You wouldn’t be flat.”

“You always do this! You  _ know _ what the correct English is!”

“Lo siento. No habla Ingles.”

Keith chews quietly, watching the siblings bicker. Squabbling with Lucia feels as much like home as the pastelitos do, and Lance feels a tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying in his bones ease out a few coils. It feels like a snapshot moment, the kind that you want tattooed on your heart. He’s at his first choice university studying piano, sat across from his twin sister as Keith munches on one of his favourite foods from home. It’s a drop in the ocean, but it’s rosy and comfortable.

“Does Hunk make these?” Keith asks hopefully.

He’s polishing off his first pastry, licking the crumbs and grease from his fingertips. Lance’s eyes trace the moment, but he tears his gaze away lest he be caught staring.

“He wishes,” Lance replies as he shoves another bite into his mouth. “The big guy just can’t get them right. You should’ve seen him cry when they came out wrong the eleventh time.”

Keith’s eyes bug out of his head, and he knocks a fist against his chest as he swallows the last of his pastelito.

“He made them  _ eleven times? _ ”

“Twelve, I think. The last one was more of a ‘revenge bake’. He burnt them.”

Keith makes a sound of amusement in the back of his throat. 

“Sounds like Hunk.” 

“God I would stab someone with a spork if it would get me a cup of coffee right now,” Kira groans.

“Coming right up, babe.”

Lucia hops to her feet, practically skipping over to the kettle. Lance resists the urge to roll his eyes for the ninetieth time that morning. It’s nice to see his sister happy, but her and Kira had almost been sitting in each other’s laps, so intent to stay close as they shovelled scrambled eggs into their mouths. At one point they’d spoon fed each other and Lance had to physically stop himself from retching. Keith hums next to him, fingers still curled around his pastry.

“Coffee sounds good.”

“Sure thing.”

Lance stands up, chair legs scraping across the floor as he makes his way over to grab some mugs out the cupboard.

“Well trained, aren’t they,” Kira remarks.

Lance hears Keith chuckle behind him. He turns around to look at the two of them and nearly smacks his head in the cupboard door.

Lucia and him really did have similar tastes. It was enough to say that Lance and Lucia looked alike. And yet sat across from each other, Keith and Kira looked like they’d been made at the same factory.

Lance nudged his sister, subtly inclining his head towards the pair. Lucia peered over her shoulder before snorting.

“Score one for Espinosa.”

“You talking about me or you?”

“Si.”

Lucia smiles over her shoulder, no doubt at Kira. She lingers a moment, smile hovering as her eyes turn vacant.

“I think he likes you a lot.”

Lance freezes at the observation. Slowly, he feels a flush begin from the very tips of his toes, creeping all the way up his spine to the tops of his ears. Lucia chuckles, a barely there whisper of breath.

“I’m happy for you,  _ hermoso _ . He’s good for you.”

Lance gulps, using the distraction of spooning coffee into the press as an excuse to hide his face.

“Gracias,” he mumbles. “I… I was kind of an ass to him when we first met.”

Lucia gives him a sidelong look. Lance feels it like an albatross strapped around his neck. It hangs heavy on his heart, a mixture of shame and guilt wrapped around him like chains.

“Well, then why don’t you apologise?”

Lance nods mutely. He can’t help but think that at this point, bringing it up might shatter the budding trust that Keith has in him. As if it may remind him that, yeah deep down Lance really isn’t always as kind as he wishes to be.

“You can’t blame yourself for that forever, Lance. I know what you’re like.”

Lance turns to look at his sister. She’s giving him a measured look, as if she’s calculating every possible response he might have to her words.

“I’m that way too,” she says reassuringly. 

The words calm him like a rush of cool water. Lucia would always know him the way she knew herself.

“If last night is anything to go by, I’d say he’s probably forgiven you,” she continues with a quirk of her brow.

“Speaking of.”

Lance leans in a little closer as he lowers his voice.

“You two seem close.”

“Got her number and everything. She graduates this year so I’ll get to see more of her.”

Lance bumps his shoulder into Lucia’s, that act friendly with easy camaraderie. 

“Nice work, sharpshooter.”

“Oh yeah, ‘cause I shoot  _ so straight. _ ”

Lance titters at the joke. He’s missed this.

“Is that coffee gonna be arriving this century?” Kira calls from across the room.

“Wow, demanding.”

Lucia slides one cup of steaming hot coffee across the table into Kira’s waiting hands as she climbs into the seat next to her, tucking her legs underneath her as the girls lean in towards each other.

“You weren’t complaining last night.”

“Are you serious? Right in front of my pastelitos?” Lance deadpans.

Lucia just flips him off as she leans in to steal a kiss.

 

*

 

Lance is on probably his fourth double espresso today. Probably. It could be five for all he knows. The days are beginning to blur together as everyone rushes to cram for the showcase. Between classes, working at the cafe, sign language lessons, and practising with Keith, Lance is amazed he even manages to sleep. His social life is beginning to suffer because of his tightly packed schedule, too. On more than three consecutive days he’s made it to classes and practice across campus in fifteen minutes, making strong use of his long legs to determinedly keep on time. He’ll sit for a four hour lecture, grab a shot of caffeine, leg it to practice for an hour or so before sprinting to the cafe. Once he’s done there it’s off into town to stay on top of ASL courses. What he wouldn’t give for a car or a motorbike to ease the ache in his joints. Hours on end of sitting cut between short bouts of sprints had Lance’s muscles wound tighter than a car spring.

Lance has barely even seen Hunk in the past two weeks and they  _ live  _ together. The big guy will hole up in his room for hours on end working on Rover, only emerging to eat and occasionally let Pidge in to help out with tech. Lance is used to having a hectic life. He grew up with seven people stuffed into a house that would have fit four at a push. Running around slotting tasks into cases of time was one thing he’d grown pretty adept at. And yet with his list of commitments gradually encroaching on his designated sleeping time, Lance was beginning to feel the effects. He will forget basic signs when conversing with Keith, or fudge a coffee order for a regular that he should have been able to do with his eyes closed.

One of the worst things about it is that Lance is beginning to make mistakes with his piano playing. The thought alone is unacceptable. Lance doesn’t make mistakes.  _ Ever. _

The fundamental notion of it is insulting enough, and it drives Lance to vehemently up his hours of practice time. In some back cabinet of his mind, Lance can appreciate the irony of the situation - the more he practises, the less time he has for sleep, and so the more mistakes he makes, which in turn motivates him to practise more. It is a vicious, all encompassing circle that Lance spins around, over and over until one day Shiro actually manhandles him into his bed. He finds Lance propped up against the mini grand, cheek smeared across his sheet music where he’s fallen asleep at the keys. Shiro takes one look at him and slings Lance over his shoulder like he weighs ten pounds, marching him all the way across campus back to his dorm.

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” he states, all firm tone and stony face.

“I have to get this piece right!” Lance protests. “There are going to be scouts from The Garrison there!”

“Even Keith isn’t practising this much,” Shiro argues, dumping Lance bodily onto his bed. He’s using his Dad Voice™, Lance knows it. “And he can be a perfectionist when he focuses too much on something. Much like someone else I know.”

“This ‘someone else’ must be extremely handsome and talented.”

Lance changes tactic, trying his charm on for size. Shiro appears unaffected, something the boy wishes he had the energy to feel annoyed about.

“And incredibly stubborn.”

Shiro lifts Lance by the waist as if he weighs nothing, cramming his legs under the duvet. Lance bats weakly against him, but just the feeling of the mattress dipping under his weight already has his eyelids drooping in compliance. Lance wants to hiss at his traitorous body.

“So you admit that I’m handsome and talented?”

“Sure, if it means you’ll go to bed.”

“M’not tired,” Lance wrestles the words out around the yawn escaping his mouth.

Shiro tugs the duvet all the way up to Lance’s chin before perching himself on the edge of the bed. Lance suspects it to be a dirty tactic - His weight is holding down the edge of the comforter, trapping Lance underneath it’s soft, squishy warmth.

Wordlessly and without even batting an eyelid, Shiro reaches out with the fingers of his organic hand to run them through Lance’s hair. The shorter boy lets out an involuntary sigh, feeling his entire body go limp and boneless under the soothing gesture.

“That’s cheating,” he mumbles, still fighting the coming wave of drowsiness.

“Hunk told me you liked this,” Shiro murmurs.

There’s a grin in his words, though Lance thinks it’s more sly than affectionate. He wants to crack open an eye to check but the task seems Herculean at this point.

“Hunk’s a traitor.”

“He’s just worried about you.”

Lance makes a quiet hum of acknowledgement. His head feels heavy on the pillow, and Shiro’s blunt nails running gently over his scalp feels really nice.

“Keith’s worried about you too,” Shiro says softly.

“Hm?”

“He said you fell asleep in the music room the other day.”

“Mm...”

Shiro’s silent for a few moments more, his fingers unceasingly drawing shallow lines through Lance’s tousled hair.

“I’m glad you two are getting along,” he says finally.

Lance just nods as he feels himself drifting off.

One of the only things that’s really been getting Lance through the day is his practice with Keith.

At first, Lance thought that their shared practice time in a private room would be the perfect excuse for a few cheeky makeout sessions. He’s never been more wrong in his life.

The first day after their night out, Lance meets Keith in his usual practice room. Keith has barely released the handle of his violin when Lance loops his arms around Keith’s waist, tugging him back to press flush against his chest as he trails his lips along the juncture of Keith’s neck.

The violinist makes a startled noise that catches halfway through, evolving into a husky groan. He turns in the circle of Lance’s arms so that they’re face to face. Lance wastes no time in pushing his lips against Keith’s, his long fingers tracing up the knobs of his spine to settle in between his shoulder blades.

Keith lets out a sigh, melting into the touch. Lance coaxes Keith’s mouth open with his tongue, feeling his nerves tingle with delight as the dark haired boy obliges, pliant underneath Lance’s ministrations. But just as Lance goes to make things more heated, his fingers drifting upwards to tug lightly at Keith’s hair, his arms are suddenly empty. Keith plants both hands on his chest, pushing him away firmly. Lance makes an unhappy whine, his bottom lip jutting out as if to compensate for the lack of Keith’s mouth.

“Don’t pout at me,” Keith chastises, brow firmly set. “We came here to practice.”

“We can practice later.”

Lance tries to eek his way back into Keith’s space, his hands loosely playing with the hem of the shirt that hangs around the other boy’s hips.

“Or we can practice now.”

“But we’re  _ alone  _ now.”

“Yeah, but I won’t be able to hear if someone’s coming down the hall, and I don’t trust you to stop if you do.”

Lance scowls and Keith grins, clearly pleased at how correct his prediction is. So Lance begrudgingly settles himself back at the seat of the piano, trying hard not to think about Keith’s proficient fingers and how there were a million and one better uses for them right now than running over the taut strings of his instrument.

As naturally talented as Keith is, it’s clear after a few meets that the honing and refining of his craft came from hours of dedicated discipline. To an outsider, it looks as if Keith were pulling the music out of thin air, simply letting his fingers find the notes as if the were drawn to them like a siren song. But after two weeks of practising with him, Lance is beginning to get better at detecting the subtle tells of Keith’s performance. Lance learns that when Keith taps his toes he’s trying to figure out if he’s on beat. He learns that when Keith is nervous, he tends to lean more forward, the curling end of his violin pointing more towards the floor. When they play together, Lance has the excuse of helping Keith keep time to repeatedly meet his eyes. They’ve agreed that every four to eight bars, Lance will nod to help Keith keep the tempo correct. So far it’s been working efficiently. Keith will flick his gaze up to meet Lance’s waiting for the tip of the pianist’s head before progressing to the next stanza. 

Today, however, Lance is feeling cheeky. He waits for Keith to look up as the bar comes to a close, a smirk poised on his lips. Keith’s dark irises slide up to meet bright blue, and Lance winks.

Keith’s bow shivers, the sound of it dragging across the strings wavering just slightly as his face floods with crimson. He abruptly stops playing and Lance throws a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. The music filling the room cuts out immediately.

“Don’t  _ do  _ that!” Keith cries.

There’s a note of mirth hidden within the protest. Lance feels a certain sense of accomplishment at this, and so he drops his hand to show Keith his grin in full force.

“I swear,” Keith bemoans, dragging a hand across his face. “If you do that during the performance I am going to stab you with my bow.”

“Oh really?” Lance waggles his eyebrows. “In front of an audience? I never took you for an exhibitionist.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “And they say romance is dead.”

His face is still tomato red though, so Lance counts it as his victory.

Keith turns away, hiding his face by digging through his violin case for more resin. Lance uses the short break to thumb through his phone. He flips open the calendar to check through his lesson timetable when something catches his eye. He pauses, thumb hovering an inch above the screen as he peers closer at the bright red dot circling the date one week from now.

“Keith!”

Lance swings around on the piano stool, kicking his legs up over the cushioned top. Keith turns at the movement. When he spots Lance’s frantic expression his eyebrows furrow in concern.

“Everything alri-”

“What date is it today?”

“Ummm…”

Lance stuffs his phone into his pocket in a frenzy to free up his hands.

_ <”What date is it today?”> _

_ <”... The 5th?”> _

Lance squeaks, jolting upright on the stool. Keith looks alarmed, quickly shoving his violin bow back into its cradle as he takes a step towards Lance.

“What’s-”

“The show is in a week!” Lance exclaims loudly.

Keith blinks.

“Yeah?”

_ <”A WEEK!”> _

Keith’s frown deepens.

“Yes. Exactly a week.”

Lance waves his arms around himself like a windmill, and Keith revokes the step he took forward, moving back in a precautionary jerk.

“How are you not freaking out about this?”

“Well… We knew what the date of the show was. I just assumed that’s why you were practising so hard.”

Lance gulps, his mouth running dry. He can feel his leg vibrating up and down like a paint mixer.

He hadn’t realised that the showcase was so soon. The days had been slipping past without him really realising it. But still! He’d just assumed he had more time. What if the composition wasn’t quite right? What if he made a mistake on performance night? What if-

_ What if Keith outshines you? _

Lance winces at the thought.

_ ‘He’s going to overshadow you.’ _

Zach’s words come shooting out of Lance’s memory, slapping him in the frontal cortex like a sledgehammer. It’s a ferocious, painful thought, and Lance feels his insides writhe with discomfort and shame.

_ Shut up!  _ Lance thinks harshly to himself.  _ Shut up shut up SHUT UP! _

_ ‘You think he’s not going to leave you behind?’ _

Lance scrunches his eyes shut tight. The lights of the room are suddenly too bright, making his eyeballs ache in their sockets. His hands flap uncontrollably at his sides, fingers smacking once or twice into his legs. Lance clenches his teeth, feeling the muscles of his jaw strain. 

_ Stop stop stop stop st- _

A warm weight settles on Lance’s furiously bouncing leg, and he stills immediately, eyes flying open. Keith is sinking slowly onto the stool next to him, watching Lance carefully like he’s an easily spooked animal.

“Lance, you okay?”

Lance forces himself to take a deep breath. The air fills his lungs wide, demanding his heart beat slower. He takes one more for good measure, keenly aware of Keith’s eyes on him.

“Anxiety?” Keith asks in a quiet voice.

Lance nods. He hates people seeing his weakness.

“What’s on your mind?”

_ <”It’s stupid.”> _

_ <”It’s NOT stupid.”> _

Lance chances a sidelong look at Keith. He’s still watching Lance, silent and patient, but not expectant. That in itself is encouraging. The fact that Lance knows Keith won’t push, that he’s content just to sit and wait until Lance wants to talk.

“It’s selfish,” Lance warns him.

Keith shrugs. “I have selfish thoughts too. It’s human.”

Lance bites his lip, hesitant. He… He really doesn’t want Keith to think less of him. Even worse, he doesn’t want Keith to feel obliged to change his playing to indulge Lance’s insecurities. He can’t think of anything more wasteful than Keith dulling his own shine just to make Lance seem a little brighter.

“I just worry that you’ll get scouted and I won’t.”

Lance doesn’t look at Keith. He’ll fully admit to being a coward, but he just can’t bring himself to. Keith barely moves, save for his fingers tightening just a fraction around Lance’s knee. He takes a breath, weighing his answer before he speaks.

“Well… I worry about the same thing too. That you’ll get scouted without me.”

Lance’s head snaps up so fast he hears his neck click.

“WHAT?!”

Keith rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, looking sheepish.

“I mean… You’re amazing at piano, and you’re the one that wrote the composition. I think a lot of people just think I’m good because I’m managing to play with a handicap.”

Lance thinks if they were in a cartoon, the dropping of his jaw would be accompanied by the mechanical creak of a door hinge. That’s how wide his mouth opens at Keith’s admission.

“But- But you-  _ You!  _ You’re just-”

Lance trips over the words as they scramble to pass his lips all at once. The idea of Keith being passed over whilst Lance is picked from a crowd seems so entirely ridiculous. So backwards, like the colour of him has been inverted.

“Keith, that’s  _ literally never going to happen. _ ”

“Why not,” Keith challenges. There’s a stubbornness to his voice, a hardness in his tone that Lance has heard before. “You really don’t see how good you are, do you?”

Lance wilts at the words.

“Sure I do! I just, you know, next to you-”

“Next to me you’re a completely capable, enviably skilled virtuoso pianist. I’m just a deaf kid who learnt to play violin.”

Lance gapes. Keith’s steely cool gaze is crumbling right in front of him. He’s not crying, but he looks tired, vulnerable. Like he’s been keeping his aloof exterior up for so long that he’s finally sagging under the weight of the walls he’s built around himself. Lance watches as Keith breaks eye contact, running a hand over his face and up to thread into his hair.

“Shit. Sorry, I was meant to be comforting you.”

_ “Say something,  _ Lance’s mind urges.

There are thousands of things Lance wants to say. How he thinks Keith is amazing at the violin, how he inspires Lance to be better, to work harder, reach higher. How he’s so happy that they’re playing a duet together and that if anyone was going to get passed over it would be Lance.  _ Of course _ it would be Lance. How he admired Keith’s playing for so long before they had even met, how he still admires him now, even more so for how far he’s come in spite of gradually losing his hearing. How he wishes he could go back and change they way they first met because he hates the idea that he perpetuated all the things that Keith has to deal with on a daily basis. But all of the words squash together in his throat, blocking their own way out like a lump of playdough. Lance can’t even swallow them back down.

So he reaches out, lifting Keith’s hand from where it has tangled in his jet black hair to twine their fingers together. Raising his eyes to Keith’s, Lance speaks directly to his lips, making sure to clearly enunciate every word.

“You know people don’t think about you like that. I don’t think about you like that.”

Keith shifts but Lance’s hold him fast, preventing escape.

“I never did say sorry,” Lance starts. His pulsing is leaping in his jugular. “For how I behaved when we first met. I was a huge dick.”

“Lance-” Keith tries to interject.

“No no, please, just let me say this.”

Lance squeezes Keith’s hand tighter, holding onto it like a lifeline. He can’t swim back to shore now, he’s come too far adrift.

“I’m so sorry, Keith. For the way I treated you. I’m sorry.”

Keith’s face doesn’t change for a moment, passive and unmoving as a stone. Then slowly, his lips curve into a benign smile, and warmth blooms in Lance’s gut.

“It’s okay,” Keith whispers. “I forgive you. Thank you, Lance.”

Lance releases the breath he’s been holding, his shoulders dropping as the air is squeezed out of him with a whoosh! When he looks up, Keith’s smile has taken on a wicked edge, closer to a smirk than before.

“That nervous, huh?”

“Oh, shut your face”

Keith chuckles, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Lance’s, eyes crinkling at the corners as his gaze drops down to the pianist’s lips before drifting back up again. It’s an invitation. Lance takes it gladly, practically sagging into Keith as he leans forward to crash their mouths together. Keith lets out another huff of laughter, the sound reverberating deep in his chest. His fingers weave through the short tufts of hair at the nape of Lance’s neck, and he sighs into the kiss, mouth falling open to let the sound escape. Lance winds his arms around Keith’s waist, pulling them a little closer together. The dark hair boy makes a soft noise in his throat as Lance tugs him forward, releasing his fingers from Lance’s hair to wrap his his arms around the taller boy’s shoulders. It’s a slow kiss, deep and passionate, both boys content to move at their own pace. Lance lets himself fall into the sensation, the way he did in the club.

There’s something satisfying about allowing your conscious brain to turn off. It’s a difficult switch to flip, sometimes damn near impossible. But Lance finds then when Keith’s lips are on his, his body warm and sure in Lance’s hold, it’s the easiest thing in the world to let everything else fall away. His field of perception narrows down to a sliver, a crack in a doorway, just enough for Keith to get through. And so everything is Keith. Keith, Keith, Keith. 

Keith’s arms wound around his neck like a scarf. Keith’s soft lips curling against his as he tries to stifle his smile so that they can kiss without clicking teeth. Keith’s hot wet mouth pliable under his own. 

It’s good.

Thinking that to himself, Lance believes it doesn’t really encompass what he feels.

He’s had some great kisses with Keith, fiery and feverish, all frenzied hands and clashing tongues. But this isn’t like that. This is sweet and calm and forgiving. And it’s exactly what Lance needs. It’s safe. It’s  _ good. _

Keith pulls away, just enough to put an inch or so between their mouths, foreheads still resting together. They’re so close that Lance feels like he might be going slightly cross-eyed as he gazes up at Keith.

“C’mon,” the shorter boy whispers. “You look shattered.”

Lance gives him a quizzical look.

“They’ll be closing the music rooms soon. We should get going. I’m only a five minute walk from here.”

Lance lifts one hand from Keith’s waist, pointing his palm upwards as he makes a small circle.

_ <“Where?”> _

“Ummmm…”

Keith shifts back a little. Lance spies a blush painting his cheeks, and he’s doing that thing where he tries to hide behind his bangs.

“You know, I just thought… Since it’s getting late… My dorm is closer.”

“Oh.  _ Oh.” _

Lance’s face rushes to catch up with Keith’s in the race for reddest cheeks. 

“I- Sure. I’ll just…”

Lance begins gathering up his music, trying to mask the tremor in his hands by fluttering the pages more than necessary. Keith slips off the piano stool to pack away his violin. The silence is thick with nerves. Lance focuses on squashing his.

He’s just staying the night.

They leave the music room together, flicking the lights out after them. The walk to Keith’s dorm is quiet, neither making an attempt as conversation. Keith’s hand finds Lance’s under the dim light, and he gives it a squeeze, either to reassure himself or not, Lance isn’t sure.

The walk up to Keith’s room feels familiar even though he’s only made the trip a few times. As soon as they’re inside, Lance kicks off his shoes, feeling the muscles of his feet loosen out of the cramps they’d knotted themselves up into.

“There’s spare toothbrushes in the bathroom cupboard,” Keith informs him. “I’ll, er, grab you some pyjamas.”

Lance nods mutely. He waits for Keith to disappear into his bedroom before padding over to the bathroom. Sure enough, inside the mirrored cupboard is a stack of three new toothbrushes. He rips one out of its packaging and gets to work scrubbing the bristles around his mouth. Half a minute later, Keith appears in the doorway. In his arms is a small pile of clothes, and he holds them up, making eye contact with Lance in the mirror to give the garments a little wave before placing them neatly on the lid of the toilet. Lance signs a small  _ thank you _ . Keith just smiles in return, disappearing through the door again.

The tall boy slips into the pyjamas quickly, folding his own clothes up to replace the pile. The T-shirt is huge on him, stretching down past his butt to end on the back of his thighs. Even short-sleeved, the sleeves reach down to his elbows, and Lance guesses it’s probably one of Shiro’s old shirts. Especially if the NASA logo splashed across the front has anything to do with it. The boxers that Keith chucked him are pretty true to size however, meaning that from the front, Lance looks like he’s just wearing a big shirt. It’s kind of cute, he guesses. Whatever, he’s tired and he’s just going to be sleeping in it.

Bundling his stack of clothes under one arm, Lance tug the cord to switch off the bathroom light and makes his way down the hall to Keith’s room. Pushing open the door, Lance gets a second to suck in a gasp before he drops the pile.

Because Keith is topless. Topless in sweat pants. Sweat pants that hang so low on his hips that Lance’s eyes can’t help but trail down to the taut ‘V’ of his abdomen.

“Sorry, I hope you don’t mind. When I sleep I get pretty…” Keith trails off as he turns around and sees Lance hovering in the doorway. “... Hot…”

Lance gulps. He doesn’t trust his voice right now. Luckily for him, he has an alternative.

_ <”It’s okay.”> _

Keith rolls his lips together, his cheeks dimpling. Lance has to make a conscious effort not to drop his head into his hands and sob at how adorable it is. Especially since there’s a war currently going on inside him between two factions. “Cute” and “hot”. Both sides seem to be at a stalemate.

“So, umm…” Keith gestures vaguely to his bed. 

It’s a queen size, Lance observes. A comfy size. A good size for two.

Keith doesn’t seem to be moving, rooted in place as he looks everywhere else in the room but at Lance. The taller boy takes the initiative, stepping fully into Keith’s room and pulling back the duvet. He slips quietly under the sheets, holding them open in invitation as he looks to Keith. The dark haired boy visibly steels himself, his shoulders rising and falling once before he steps over to ease into the bed beside Lance. After a moment of shifting, the two settle on the mattress facing each other. The air seems to still around them. Lance just… Looks at Keith. How his hair falls around his face, pooling on the pillow like oil. His dark eyes glint in the limited light that stripes across the room through the slatted blinds. Keith reaches out and laces their fingers together. Lance brings Keith’s hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against each knuckle, one after the other.

“I want to turn over but then I won’t be able to talk to you,” Keith murmurs.

Lance shakes his head.

_ <”Sleep.”> _

Keith gives him a drowsy smile, his eyelids already sliding shut as he rolls onto his other side. Lance scoots up behind him, closing the space between them as he winds his arm over Keith’s waist. The shorter boy catches his hand, snaring it between his fingers again.

“Night, Lance.”

Lance knows Keith can’t hear his response, so he just presses a long kiss to the nape of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on [My Tumblr](http://zizzani.tumblr.com/)  
> We can yell about sensitive boys together!


	15. Largamente

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Largamente - broadly
> 
> A lot of fluff, a lot of yelling, some more fluff, and then angst.  
> Plus two coffees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I can't believe it's been almost four months!
> 
> Sooooo normally I'd just apologise for being late but I really think this time I need to explain just how much I could not update this chapter earlier so here goes: Since September 2017 I've been working 4 jobs 7 days a week roughly 8am-midnight most days. There's been the rare day off but really, I'm a whole new level of exhausted. I think I've actually gone past "burn out" and burned through the fabric of reality into a new material plane.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for sticking with this fic so long. I've been so determined to get this chapter out before the end of the week. Originally it was gonna be 10k, then it got to 12, then 14, and I was gonna write the performance but I realised that that would take me to 25k and honestly I just wanted to post soooooo I hope you enjoy it as it is!
> 
> Also, slight trigger warning: Lance has some pretty invasive thoughts brought on by anxiety at the end of this chapter if you want to avoid that. Stop reading at "time to shine".
> 
> KEY:
> 
> < "Someone is talking whilst signing." >
> 
> //"Someone is talking whilst someone ELSE is signing."//
> 
>  
> 
> _If the text is italic, the person is signing WITHOUT SPEAKING._

Lance wakes first, surprisingly.

It’s a quiet thing, waking, different to how it is usually. Most mornings Lance has to peel his eyelids back with enormous effort, his brain grinding to life like a rusty machine at least twenty minutes behind his body.

But this morning feels different. It’s less of a long ingrained startup programme dragging him into reality and more like he’s simply slept enough. His eyes remain shut, but steadily Lance’s other senses become more alert. He can hear the birds chirping outside, a few distant noises of dorm doors slamming, a car passing along campus. The pillow feels soft where it’s squashed against his face, and there’s a circle of warmth in his arms that feels _so nice._

Lance instinctively wraps his arms a little tighter around the warm thing. It felt like he was hugging a _feeling._ That feeling was content.

And so Lance sighs contentedly, long and slow, since it feels appropriate. The warm thing shifts in his arms with a small gruff noise.

And suddenly Lance feels wide awake.

He blinks his eyes open a few times, squinting as the sun retaliated against the darkness of his slumber. Sure enough, there lies Keith curled up in his arms like a drowsy kitten. He’s turned over in the night so that they’re facing each other, arms slung loosely around each other’s waists.

He’s close enough the Lance can study the way his thick lashes flutter against his cheeks, the sharp swooping lines of his cheekbones, how distinctly his dark hair contrasts with the paleness of his skin. It’s like he’s a dream thing that Lance thought up and somehow brought to life in his sleep. If only Lance believed himself capable of such imagination.

Lance feels the undeniable pull to reach out and touch, just to make sure that Keith is real, that he’s really here, somnolescent and wonderful. It’s the same sort of urge you get to grasp at smoke, when you know you can’t grasp it, and yet your mind insists that because you can see it before your eyes, claiming it in your hand must be achievable.

So Lance reaches out, barely enough to let the backs of his digits skim gently over the smooth plane of Keith’s cheek. It’s a new experience, seeing Keith like this, all his rough edges softened by the calmness of sleep. Like seeing the original sketch of an oil painting; same image, different medium. Lance lets his fingers wander, giving them the freedom to map their own path over the violinist’s face. Their travels take Lance’s hand towards Keith’s temple, curving upwards just enough to sweep the longer strands of hair away from his face. The movement causes Keith’s eyebrows to quiver as the scrunch together in quiet disturbance. Lance can’t help the small breathy laugh that escapes him: Keith looks like a grumpy kitten.

And then Keith’s eyes are popping open, navy capturing blue in filmy surprise. He blinks a few times as his pupils adjust to the new light, and Lance quickly removes his hand.

Keith peeps his eyes wide enough to shoot Lance a lazy smile that honestly has no right looking that good this early in the morning, thanks.

“Hey, mornin’.”

Lance gives him a soft smile of his own.

“Hi.”

He mouths the word, rather than says it. He’s not sure why, but for some reason, he doesn’t want to shatter the stillness of the moment, the fragile tranquility of the morning. Like they’re floating in liminal space.

Keith suddenly pulls a face, and he turns his face into the pillow with a muffled groan.

“I wanna talk to you but it’s too early to sign.”

Lance lets out a genuine chuckle at that. He decides that actions speak louder than words anyway, and reaches out to smooth a hand down Keith shoulder, tracing a languid line down to his waist. He stops just over Keith’s ribs, his fingers rubbing slow circles into the soft layer of flesh there. Keith lets out a contented sigh, his body stretching out like a cat.

“S’nice,” he mumbles.

Lance smiles, letting his fingers continue there kneading. The moment stretches, a comfortable silence settling over the two of them like a thin blanket as Lance thumbs over the divots between Keith’s ribs, the latter occasionally letting out a pleased rumble. After a few minutes, Keith pops his head back up from the crater of his pillow.

“What time is it?”

Lance regretfully pulls his hand away from Keith’s side to grope blindly for his phone. Pressing the home screen button, he peeks at the time hovering over a load of notifications from the group chat. He drops the phone unceremoniously, absently thinking that with the amount of abuse it withstands, it’s only a matter of time before he breaks it. He can’t bring himself to care right now, though, not when Keith is peering at him through groggy, slitted eyes, a secretive smile hiding at the corner of his mouth.

Lance holds up 8 fingers: Keith was right, is really is too early to sign.

The sentiment is echoed in the groan the Keith lets out. A small pinch forms between his eyebrows before disappearing back into the comfort of the pillow. Lance let his eyes slide closed again, not with fatigue but with a long forgotten sense of comfort. His fingers find their ways up to Keith’s head where they make themselves a home, winding between the thick, glossy strands of his hair. Lance’s fingers find a rhythm in the flex and fold and turn around Keith’s hair, twisting it with quiet curiosity as he lets the minutes stretch on. In all honesty, he can see himself sleeping in until the afternoon with Keith laid beside him. The haziness of Keith’s room is a wholly welcome break from the stress and anxiety that have been threatening to overwhelm him, and Lance can’t help but selfishly want to coax as much time out of the brief reprieve as he can.

Plus, with his fingers finding something to occupy them, it gives Lance’s mind enough distraction to fully appreciate the amount of relief that comes with simply being allowed to _exist_ , the remain suspended in a moment that feels liminal and precious.

After what seems like an hour, Keith eventually rouses next to him. It still feels too soon, and Lance scrunches up his face to illustrate his distaste.

“C’mon,” Keith chuckles. “We’ve gotta get out of bed some time.”

Lance shakes his head stubbornly, keep his eyes firmly shut. In a mirror of Keith’s earlier action, he twists his face down into the pillow, using his free arm to wrap the excess plush around his head.

“No, stop that,” Keith says, firmer.

Lance doesn’t move.

It is a mistake.

A quick rustle of sheets is all the warning Lance gets before there’s a blunt, _hard_ shove to his waist. Lance lets out an inhuman noise as he goes flying off the edge of the mattress. He lands flat on his ass, the large shirt he slept in slipping deeply off his shoulder.

A ripple of laughter bounces around the room, springing right into Lance’s unprepared ears.

_Dammit, Keith has a cute laugh._

The thought alone is not enough to stop the simmering wave of indignation that rises in Lance’s veins.

_“Keith!”_

The accused is already pulling back as Lance claws his way back onto the bed like a rabid animal. Keith rolls away as far as the length of the mattress will allow, full bellied guffaws booming out of him like hiccups. He doesn’t get very far before Lance grabs him, long arms looping around Keith’s waist.

The pianist makes sure to look him dead in the eyes as he very deliberately mouths the word “mistake”. Keith’s eyes fly wide as Lance’s fingers dig in, ten blunt points of wriggling digits.

Keith lets out what could very much be described as a squeal.

It’s… Yeah. _Yeah._

Lance is so enveloped by the bubble of laughter escaping Keith’s lips that he almost misses the soft knock at the door. What he doesn’t miss though, is the unmistakable sound of Shiro’s voice ringing through the steadily opening door frame.

“Keith, I’m coming in slowly, I really hope you’re decent!”

A bolt of pure panic shoots through Lance’s heart, and he slaps a frantic hand over his mouth to contain his squeak. Shiro can’t catch him here! He’ll kill Lance with one hand and not even blink if he thinks the pianist was fooling around with his younger brother.

Keith’s brows furrow. “What?”

Lance shakes his head quickly, trying to communicate with Keith using the sheer terror in his eyes. Behind Keith’s mess of bed hair, he can see Shiro’s prosthetic hand stick itself around the door and give a little wave, announcing his entry. Lance rears back, scrambling against the uncooperative bed sheets that are wrapped around his legs like bandages, as far away from Keith as he can until he falls with another squawk off the edge of the mattress. Keith sits up quickly, staring at Lance with wide-eyed confusion. Lance lifted his hand away from his lips to mouth a hasty “Shiro”. Keith’s alarmed expression quickly morphed into one of swift horror, and his head whipped around towards his bedroom door.

“Shiro!” he yelped. “I’m- Don’t come in! I’m not dressed!”

Lance heard the squeak of the door hinges pause. He curled himself closes to the edge of Keith’s bed, trying to press his body as close to it as possible in an attempt to hide from the potential shitstorm about to unfold.

“Oh, uh-sorry. Shit, wait.”

Lance could hear some muffled noises, a few brushes and knocks of metal on wood. Shiro was probably signing something out to Keith with one hand. After a second, the door closed with a soft click and the sound of footsteps withdrew to the kitchen. Keith let out a heavy sigh of relief. There was a rustle of bedsheets and then Keith’s head was poking over the side of the mattress, staring down at Lance with a drawn expression.

“Thanks for the heads up.”

“You’re welcome!” Lance manages to squeak.

His heart is lodged somewhere between his sternum and his throat, beating so hard that it’s threatening to punch through his windpipe.

“Guess I’d better actually get dressed before he gets nosy,” Keith says with a dejected sigh.

Lance can’t help but share the sentiment - Shiro had definitely interrupted _something._ A something that Lance had very much wanted to explore.

“Here. Catch.”

Lance is startled by the shirt hitting him in the face, and he makes a soft strangled noise as he instinctively recoils. He bites it off though, remembering that Shiro is not ten metres away in the kitchenette. After a quick rummage around on the floor, Lance successfully locates his jeans, slipping them over his legs and hastily doing the buckle. He pulls the shirt over his head as he springs to his feet, rubbing the sleep dust from his still blurry vision.

His eyes land on where Keith is standing by the dresser, pulling on his own trousers.

Except he’s topless.

And his hair is in a fucking ponytail.

Lance is staring. He _knows_ he’s staring, but he can’t help it.

Because Keith’s shoulders are way more defined than he thought they would be, probably from holding up his instrument for years on end. And the lines from his scapula glide together in a way that convinces Lance’s eyes it’s a good idea to keep roaming down the length of his spine to where the line tapers into two very attractive dimples.

Lance feels a sweeping urge to trace them with his thumbs.

His feet have moved without him really registering it, and suddenly he finds himself planted squarely behind Keith.

“You should probably wait for us to leave before coming out,” Keith says quietly.

He hasn’t glanced around the room to gauge where Lance is, but it seems as though he’s wary of talking too loudly, lest he alert Shiro just one room over. Wordlessly, Lance reaches out and fulfills his earlier wish, delicately tracing the pad of one thumb over the profound dip in Keith’s skin.

The violinist freezes, his arms routing through the dresser coming to an abrupt stop. Lance slows, not wanting to freak Keith out. He feels as if he’s approaching a wild animal, being careful not to spook it. Trying to keep his fingers from trembling, Lance gingerly lifts his other hand to rest on the alternate dimple, rubbing a small circle with both of his thumbs. Keith lets out a shaky exhale, his head bowing forward as he braces his forearms on the top of the dresser.

Whether he meant to or not, the action causes the spiky tuft of ponytail to fall away from his neck, leaving the strip of skin across his nape exposed and vulnerable and all too enticing. Before he can chicken out, Lance leans forward to brush his lips against it, a featherlight touch, just enough to get a taste.

It’s like he’s plugged Keith into a livewire: The shorter boy gives a full body shudder, his shoulders spiking up towards his ears as he lets out a short gasp.

“Lance…”

It’s whispered; both a warning and plea, and it has a warm glaze slipping under Lance’s skin, making him feel golden from the inside out. He skims his thumbs a little higher, smoothing upwards along either side of Keith’s spine. The shorter boy shivers at the contact. Lance smiles triumphantly against Keith’s skin.

“Keith, are you ready ye-”

Lance whirls around at breakneck speed, almost giving himself whiplash in the process. Keith turns not a second later, and his eyes connect with Shiro’s in stunned, widened surprise.

There’s a moment of absolute stillness, a moment where it seems as if the very air has been sucked out of the room, Lance is finding it so hard to breathe.

It’s like someone’s squashed his lungs with a steamroller. Shiro’s eyes flick to Lance’s, then back to Keith, then back to Lance, before he slowly seems to register that Keith is shirtless and Lance’s hands are firmly planted on his waist.

“Keith, you-,” Shiro struggles to speak.

It looks like he’s trying to understand English but his translator is stuck on hieroglyphics, his mouth keeps opening and closing like a goldfish. And then suddenly his brow is furrowing, face darkening in a feral sort of way that trips a primal fear in Lance’s mind.

_“Lance,”_ Shiro growls, nothing but bared teeth and fur stood on end. “You had better not be doing _what I think you’re doing!”_

“Shiro-” Keith starts.

He’s interrupted by Shiro lunging across the room, making a wild swipe at Lance. The pianist lets out a strangled yelp, ducking out the way way with millimetres to spare. Lance swears he feels Shiro’s blunt nails breeze by his neck.

“Shiro, wait!” Keith barks again.

But it’s no use. Shiro is already making another mad dive at the lanky boy currently clambering over the furniture, just a whisker out of reach. The older boy snarls, all primal rage and animalistic, teeth bared into shiny white fangs.

_“Lance, you had better hope you're not hooking up with my baby brother!”_

“Ach!”

Lance screeches as Shiro’s knuckles graze his shirt sleeve. Close enough to touch, but just short of catching ahold. He vaults over Keith’s bed, putting the furniture solidly between himself and his current assailant. Not that it matters all that much, because Shiro plants one foot firmly on the mattress, shoes and all, before leaping at Lance, fingers curled back into claws. Lance makes one last bid for safety, taking a flying spring backwards, completely ready to fall on his butt or hit a wall or just be strangled to death by Takashi Shirogane, whichever comes first really. He screws his eyes up against whichever collision is destined to meet him; floor, plaster, murder. All feel equally inevitable.

“Stop!”

Lance opens his eyes a fraction, afraid that anymore will only hasten his end, but it’s enough to see Keith step swiftly in front of him, a shield against his older brother. Shiro moves to duck around him but Keith plants a foot solidly in the way, his knee sticking out to the side as he lunges to block with his body. Shiro collides with him like a bolting animal, a flurry of unbalanced steps and awkward stumbling. The impact sends Keith tittering backwards until he hits Lance, and like a row of dominoes, the two of them fall back into the wall. Lance is so preoccupied with trying to catch the shorter boy, he doesn’t even notice that his hands have inadvertently slipped around Keith’s waist, his fingers sliding underneath them hem of Keith’s shirt so that they sit against to taught skin of his stomach.

But Shiro sure as shit does notice.

His eyes widen for a second before his brow is furrowing again, fierce protectiveness filling every corner of his steel grey eyes.

“Shiro, wait!”

Keith flings out one arm, palm forward, fingers spread wide. It’s a universal signal for “stop”. And whether he consciously means to or not, Shiro complies. He slows for just a moment, his posture straightening into something less feral, less bestial.

“Please! Just- Just _wait!_ ” Keith gasps.

It takes Lance a second to realise that Keith is talking to him, and he releases the tourniquet his arms had formed around the dark haired boys obliques. Keith lets out a huff of breath, allowing Lance to push them both more upright. Shiro is watching them with as much interest and deadly intent as a hawk: Lance feels like the sparrow about to have its neck snapped.

“I know what you’re gonna say...” Keith begins, calmly, as if he’s trying not to set off a tripwire.

One wrong step and BOOM!

His hand is still raised, his finger tips making five points of a star. It seems to be doing a questionable job of pacifying the large man currently eyeing Lance with as much warmth as a glacier.

“Lance is just- He was helping me with some-er... “

Lance tries his best not to wince as Keith grasps for an excuse. He knows it’s already too late to fabricate something. Shiro’s got a slightly unhinged gleam about his eyes that says he understands the situation _intimately._

“You’d better get your story straight,” he says evenly, but the threat in his words has Lance swallowing thickly.

He’s not even signing, which means Shiro’s addressing Lance _directly._

“Um-”

Lance clears his throat. The words catch on their way out of his mouth, sticking to his windpipe like cheap velcro. He places a hand on Keith’s shoulder, partially to reassure the shorter boy, but mostly so that he has something steady to hold on to: His legs feel like they’re in danger of buckling under the intensity of Shiro’s glare.

Keith turns his head to glance at Lance as the taller boy moves around him, stepping a close as he dares to Shiro towering over them. It takes everything in Lance’s power not to crumple into a ball. There’s an uncomfortable assortment of embarrassment, fear, and what feels like thoroughly misplaced shame swirling inside his gut like spiked punch, trying to convince him to be sick.

“Shiro, I-”

Shiro’s eyes flash. Lance gulps and starts again.

“Me and Keith, we’re not- _I’m_ not messing around.”

The words sounds shaky but determined, even to his own ears. Shiro’s expression doesn’t change; he still looks ready to tear Lance’s head off his shoulders.

“This isn’t some joke to me,” Lance continues.

He tries to ignore his wobbly knees, focussing instead on pushing as much earnestness as he can into his voice. He needs to prove himself, needs to show Shiro how sincere he is about their budding relationship.

“ _Everything_ is a joke to you,” Shiro says bluntly.

Lance winces. It’s a barb that stings unexpectedly.

“This isn’t,” he insists. “I know how much you care about Keith. I’m not trying to mess him about, Shiro, I-”

Lance turns his head unsteadily, reluctant to take one eye off the looming form of his friend. It’s enough just to catch Keith’s gaze, to look into his eyes as he says, <”I really like him.”>

Lance’s chest swells with satisfaction when he sees Keith’s cheeks flush a pretty pink, his lips parting in a small ‘o’. When he looks back at Shiro warily he notices how the older boy’s shoulders have relaxed a few centimetres, the tension coiled in his muscles softening out like a smoothed out bedsheet. There’s still a storm held in the metallic grey of his eyes, but they’re moving back and forth between Keith less like he’s calculating which of them to kill first and more like he’s processing a difficult equation.

After a few seconds of tense silence he says, “Keith?”

His tone is tight with indecision. This is the moment, Lance realises. Shiro is leaving Lance’s fate up to whatever his little brother answers.

”He… I-,” Keith stutters.

He’s doing that thing where he tries to hide behind his bangs. Lance fastens one hand around his wrist, bolting it to his side to keep from reaching out and brushing the dark strands away from Keith’s face the way he so very much wants to. He watches as Keith lifts his hands, steady and unwavering.

_ <”I like him, too.”> _

Lance tries, he really tries to resist it. But he can’t help the ear-to-ear grin that splits his face. Keith’s eyes meet his for a fraction of a second before he looks away, arms folding across his chest in an all too familiar defense.

“Shuddup,” he mumbles.

Lance turns back to Shiro and his smile slides off his face faster than hot oil.

Shiro is the picture of torn. There’s a muscle leaping in his jaw as he works his teeth, grinding them together as if he’s trying to chew past the words he wants to say. His fingers keep bunching and loosening at his sides, and he appears for all the world like a wolf cub: Cute, but with the undeniable potential to grow into something deadly.

After a tense moment, he lets out a heavy exhale. It sounds more like defeat than acceptance.

Lance has one second to feel triumphant before Shiro jabs a finger into his chest, and _ow,_ that was harder than expected.

“You hurt him, _I_ hurt _you_ ,” he promises. Then softer, “He’s my baby brother, Lance.”

Lance resists the urge to rub his chest where Shiro has just poked him. It feels like he’s been marked with a black spot for death. Shiro steps back, giving Lance some much needed breathing room. Something changes in his face, like a thought has just come to him, and he raises his hand again to point at Lance. It’s only marginally less threatening than the poking.

“And be responsible,” Shiro demands.

There’s no need for elaboration, not with the way Keith lets out a sigh behind Lance that somehow manages to sound equally disgusted and disappointed.

Lance doesn’t trust his voice not to come out sounding reedy and thin, so instead he swallows and nods his head wordlessly.

Shiro looks less than satisfied with the response, but he looks past Lance to lock eyes with Keith.

The two brothers stare at each other for a beat, the silence thick with tension and something else. Something that Lance can’t put a name to, but that he has felt himself. It’s the same kind of of silent communication that he shares with Lucia: The words unspoken lie in the subtlety of their idiosyncrasies - a tilt of the head, a slow blink, a finger tapping out an unheard tune.

After a second, Shiro sighs, shaking his head in resignation.

“Okay,” he says, more to himself than to Lance and Keith. Then, again, “Okay.”

Shiro lifts his gaze to meet Keith’s again. He spares Lance a sidelong look before he lifts his hands to sign out a rapid sentence.

There’s a strange speed to the gestures. It’s like Shiro is purposefully trying to trip Lance up, moving his hands with quick, precise sweeps that bleed into each other faster than the pianist can keep pace. Lancee manages to get maybe one, he thinks?

_ <“Keith. ~~~~~~ hospital~~~~~~important~~~~~~ Tuesday.”> _

Whatever it is that being signed, it clearly makes sense to Keith.

The shorter boy gives a curt nod of understanding, his face unreadable. Lance glances back and forth between the two brothers. He’s becoming painfully aware that he’s stood in a rather awkward position, slap bang in the middle of a Kogane/Shirogane blockade. Self-consciously, he shuffles to the side so that he’s standing next to Keith, rather than in front of him like a flimsy human shield. The muscle in Shiro’s jaw twitches as their hands brush but he remains tight lipped.

“Uuuuhhhh,” Lance tries to break the silence.

Both Shiro and Keith’s eyes snap towards him. They both at least look a little embarrassed, and Lance rather quickly feels as if he’s intruded on a personal conversation.

“Sorry, Lance,” Shiro begins, eyes flicking towards Keith. “It’s-”

“No no no! I get it, private bro business!”

Lance’s hands fly up, palms forward, hushing Shiro’s excuses.

“I’ll ummmm. I should go.”

Lance scratches the underside of his jaw absently, unsure where to look. He gives Shiro a weak smile as he shuffles backwards towards the door of Keith’s room. He isn’t really certain how to bid farewell to Keith, but a kiss definitely seems like the wrong option given the presence of an older brother. So instead, Lance side steps through the door frame offering Keith a lame little wave as he whisks down the hall.

He’s barely halfway to the door when he hears footsteps chasing behind him.

“Lance, wait!”

The tall boy turns around to see Keith trotting after him. He comes to a stop, close enough that Lance can feel Keith’s warmth ghost across his skin. It’s only instinct when his arm reaches out to bridge the short distance between them, coming to rest gently on Keith’s upper arm.

“Practice this afternoon?”

Keith’s eyes are a glittering lake of hope and happiness, and yet a twinge of uncertainty lays at the edge of it; a monster on the shore. Lance is about to say yes, the word bouncing on the tip of his tongue, ready to leap out on reflex when he stops.

He’d been so preoccupied with drilling himself into the ground about practicing the composition that now he’s had a moments rest, the memory of how it feels to be relaxed has come back to him in a floating, glazed glow. And if he really stops to recognise it, Lance can’t ignore the steady ache in the tips of his fingers from bashing the keys, the uninterrupted ache in the muscles of his neck from hunching over the sheet music.

And… For once it would be nice to do something with Keith that wasn’t just practice.

So Lance smiles when he shakes his head no. The hope in Keith’s eyes blinks out like a light, but Lance’s smile grow wider.

“How about a date instead?”

Keith frowns, like he hasn’t quite understood the sentence. Lance rubs the back of his neck with his unoccupied hand. His finger around Keith’s arm squeeze affectionately before letting go. Hesitantly, he signs out the word. D-A-T-E.

Keith’s lips part in a soft “oh”. And then he’s smiling, and it’s like it lights up the entire room.

“Yeah. Yes! I- Yeah, I’d like that.”

Lance bites his lip to contain his grin. There’s a golden shimmer of happiness that fills his veins like liquid sunshine, and he winks at Keith as he opens the door to the apartment, pleased with the way it makes the shorter boy flush a cherry pink.

“Oh, and Lance?”

Lance pauses halfway out the door.

“This is the sign for date.”

Keith touches his thumbs and middle fingers on each hand, index fingers pointed up as he taps his hands together twice.

Shiro’s voice comes rocketing out of the bedroom.

“Did I hear the word DATE?!”

Lance grimaces at the tone. He signs a quick “Shiro”, pointing towards the direction of the bedroom before swooping in to kiss Keith on the cheek. And then he’s out of there, dashing out of the dorm block, more than content to leave Keith to deal with his older brother alone.

 

**

 

“I’m almost afraid to ask but… What’s wrong with you?”

Hunk is hovering by the oven, his hands gloved in two large baking mitts as the honeyed light from the machine illuminates one side of his face. Lucia had left him a tube of guava paste despite Lance warning her that the pastries just would not come out right. Hunk had taken the cautioning as a challenge, putting aside time to bake at least three batches of pastelitos. The pastries had obliged by burning on every attempt.

Hunk eyed Lance with a frown as he pulled the final tray of charred baked goods from the oven. He didn’t even touch the countertop, instead walking straight to the bin to chuck the spoiled food as he sighed in total defeat.

Lance just hummed, thumbing through his phone with the lack of attention that can only be exhibited by ADHD kids like himself. The fingers of his free hand wrapped against his knee where his long legs were folded neatly underneath him. He’d been trying to think of good places to take Keith: Suggesting a date had seem like the sweet thing to do at the time, and Lance was nothing if not a true romantic at heart.

But now that’d he’d resurfaced from the post cuddle bliss, the real stresses of the world were no longer retreating. And one of those stresses was deciding where to take Keith.

“Seriously,” Hunk pressed, putting his gloved hands on his hips. He looked like a strange beast with quilted plush paws, dressed in his flowery apron and yellow shirt. “I’ve only ever seen you get this distracted when you were trying to impress that one girl, what was her name?”

“Hm?”

Lance afforded Hunk the courtesy of actually looking up from his phone, trying his best to focus on what his friend was saying.

“You know, the one that did marine biology or something? Had a weird surname. Pla-Plato, Plarum-”  
“Plaxum?” Lance offered.

Hunk made a swinging motion with his arm. A faint clicking noise came from inside the oven mitt.

“Yeah, that one! Man, you had suuuuuch a crush on her.”

“Mmm,” Lance agreed absently. “Yeah… Yeah she was cute.”

Hunk tilted his head to the side. With his size, the gesture was almost laughably endearing; he looked like a confused puppy.

“Is this something to do with Keith?” he asked after a minute.

Lance’s brow furrowed as he chewed his lip furiously. Hunk let out another long sigh, and Lance heard him mutter a soft “oh boy” under his breath. The big guy carefully removes his oven gloves, stacking them tidily on the countertop before taking a seat next to Lance on the sofa.

“Come on, buddy. What’s eating ya? Tell Hunky Hunk all about it.”

Lance throws up his arms with a dramatic gasp, letting himself fall bodily sideways into his best friend’s lap. Hunk lets out an “oof!” as Lance’s weight lands on him, but he rests his hand on Lance’s head all the same. The gentle scratch of blunt nails raking through Lance’s hair has the pianist letting out a long breath, his muscles moulding around the shape of Hunk’s body.

“I asked him out!”

Lance twists to lie on his back, arms falling slack by his side as he stared up at the ceiling. From this angle, he can partially see Hunk’s face poking into his periphery.

“Ooooooh,” Hunk teases.

He pokes Lance in the side, chuckling when the lanky boy slaps his hands away with a grumble.

“I knew it.”

“Shut up.”

Hunk chuckles again. Lance can feel the vibrations rack his shoulders as they nestled into the valley between Hunk’s thighs.

“So?” the big guy asks. “Where are you gonna take him?”

“That’s just it! I don’t know! I was trying to be romantic when really I’m just a mess and now I don’t know where to take him for one stinking date! It’s hopeless!”

Hunk pats Lance consolingly on the arm, _pat pat._

“Alright buddy,” he coos. “Let’s not get dramatic.”  
“Seriously? It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

“Touché.”

Lance groans, rolling over onto his side so the he faced away from his friend. Vaguely, he thinks, there was only so mad you can seem at someone when you’re lying in their lap. Hunk clearly shares the sentiment as he continues brushing his fingers through Lance’s hair.

“What am I gonna do?” Lance laments.

It comes out quieter than he intended, and for a second he feels Hunk’s hand still in its ministrations.

“Well,” he begins thoughtfully. “What does Keith like?”

“I dunno! Violin? Practice? Leather gloves?”

Lance can _hear_ Hunk’s frown.

“Do you guys even, like, talk?” he asks somewhat incredulously.

Lance quashes the stab of offence he feels at the question. Of course him and Keith talk! They talk about the composition and Keith had shared how he’d felt about going deaf and stuff.

Okay, so that was more of Keith talking to calm Lance down, but still, it counted didn’t it?

Lance cast his mind back, digging through his brain for something, anything, that he remembered Keith mentioning. It doesn’t take too long for an idea to flicker to life in his mind like a genuine goddamn cartoon light bulb hanging above his head.

“Sunsets,” he murmurs. “Keith said he likes sunsets.”

Hunk pats him on the head in a sort of congratulatory gesture. Lance hates that he feels patronised.

“Take him to go see the sunset then.”

Lance nods, closing his eyes as the motion rubs the tips of Hunk’s fingers harder against his scalp.

“Thanks, man,” he mumbles.

Hunk just squeezes his bicep, his touch warm and reassuring as always.

 

**

 

Lance texts Keith to tell him that he’s heading round to pick him up at seven o’clock. When Lance swings by, Keith is already standing outside the building waiting, head tilted back to watch the murmuration of starlings warping in a speckled cloud above them. In the early evening light, the tips of his hair glint gold and silver, lining him like an ink pen against the drab grey of the dorm.

He turns his head as Lance approaches, the hint of a smile just hanging of the side of his mouth.

“Hey,” he greets when Lance is a few steps away.

There’s a mildness to his tone that immediately has Lance’s heart beating double time.

“Hi,” Lance rasps out in reply.

Keith just smiles at him, all sharp edges smoothed out into something softer and patient.

“Where are we going?”

Lance grins wickedly at him, taking a second to absorb the whisper of trepidation in Keith’s eyes as he lifts his hands and signs out the word he’d learnt especially for this evening.

_ <”On an adventure.”> _

Before Keith can reply, Lance takes his hand, zipping their fingers firmly together as he pulls the shorter boy into step beside him. To his credit, Keith doesn’t resist. Just let’s Lance tug him along like a boat loose on a lake.

They start towards the town, a comfortable silence falling between them. That and it’s hard to sign when you’ve got one hand preoccupied with more necessary things. And yes, Lance did consider holding Keith’s hand to be more necessary than talking right now, because he wants to save that for later. For when they’re alone.

As they approach the first set of traffic lights, Lance veers off to the side, pulling Keith in a sharp turn behind him. He twists down a hidden path between the brick wall of someone's garden and an untrimmed hedge. There’s barely enough room for them to fit through, and so the boys turn to face the wall, sidestepping their way through to the other side of the makeshift passage.

When they pull clear, the two of them stand in a small cul-de-sac, the surrounding houses all trimmed with white plastic double glazing.

Keith remains silent as Lance walks them towards as small gate between two of the houses. It jangles unsteadily as Keith pulls it closed behind them, following Lance down the woody trail. The trees turn thicker and wilder around them, branches reaching towards the sky, creating jagged fissures in the ambient blue with their foliage. The pathway inclines the further they walk, until Lance can feel a steady burn in his calves. Keith’s fingers squeeze his own.

“Is this the part where you murder me?” he enquires casually.

Lance signs with his free hand.

_ <”No.”> _

“Oh, so this is just where you hide your illegal dog fighting rings, then.”

Lance shoots Keith a sardonic look. Keith just shrugs noncommittally, as if he could care less whether or not Lance was actually hiding an illegal dog fighting ring.

After ten minutes of walking, the trees begin to thin out, making way to clear a view of their destination. Lance slows as he reaches the peak of the hill, planting one foot firmly in front of himself in order to turn back and offer Keith help with his footing. Keith wobbles slightly on the steep ground, but he holds tight to Lance, letting the taller boy pull him up. Once he’s steady, Lance circles on arm around Keith’s waist as an anchor, and together they turn to look out at the horizon.

The buildings littered below them stretch into the horizon, a toy town giving way to cresting hills and valleys. The sky is already turning pink with the retreating sun, and it casts a golden glow across the whole scope of view, painting both urban and rural in honeyed likeness.

“It’s beautiful up here,” Keith whispers, his voice layered with awe.

Lance squeezes his waist to get Keith’s attention. When the shorter boy turns to him, Lance murmurs, “You said you liked sunsets.”

Keith’s eyebrows lift in surprise, disappearing behind his bangs.

Lance can’t help himself: He lifts a hand to brush them out of Keith’s eyes.

In the rich light, Keith’s irises shimmer with cerise and violet and mauve, a distorted reflection of the furious red cast surrounding them.

Mirroring the gesture, Keith cups Lance’s cheek with one gloved hand. There’s a familiar trace of hesitation in his eyes, but it’s quickly being swallowed by desire and a heated intensity that has Lance’s mouth running dry.

_Is this okay?_

Lance nods almost imperceptibly, keeping his eyes open just a sliver as Keith leans in.

The first brush of their lips is shy, the second curious. The third is as brazen and wild as Lance wants it to be, everything crashing together around him as Keith sweeps his tongue into Lance’s mouth. He lets out a surprised moan, voice catching in his throat so the noise comes out distorted and desperate. The arm circling Keith’s waist coils tight like a tourniquet, drawing their bodies closer so that they’re sealed against one another like cooling wax.

Keith traces the line of Lance’s jaw with the pad of his thumb. It’s the only digit that isn’t calloused, and Lance simmers at the new sensation of softness roaming his skin. He fastens his fingers in the long hair fraying around Keith’s neck, the tendrils silky beneath his palm. A short tug has Keith hiccuping out a noise that makes Lance flush all the way down to his toes. When Keith’s head falls back, he seizes the opportunity to pepper the pale column of his throat with kisses.

The violinist laughs hoarsely. Lance feels it all the way through his mouth as he lets his lips venture across the sensitive flesh beneath Keith’s chin. He resists the urge to bite down around the sound.

“Did you really bring me all the way up here just to make out?” Keith chokes out between breathy gasps.

Lance pulls back, feathering one, two, three kisses up Keith’s throat, jaw, lips, before pulling back to look him in the eye. Keith blinks slowly at him, cheeks flushed an attractive scarlet, chest rising and falling in short bellows. Lance’s chest swells with hot satisfaction. He releases his hold around the shorter boy’s form long enough to sign.

_ <”No. I want to talk.”> _

The glazed look in Keith’s eyes slips away like water off a teflon pan, bleeding into his muscles where they bunch uncomfortably in his shoulders.

“Oh.”

Keith’s voice is like a stone dropping in a pond.

“Not like that!” Lance rushes to amend. “I just meant- I want, _argh!”_

The pianist shakes his fingers out in front of him, as if trying to rid them of any nerves that hang onto the tips. Keith takes a tiny step back, looking thoroughly startled. Lance tries again, his brow furrowing in concentration.

_ <”I want-”> _ he tries to stop his fingers trembling. _ <”To talk-”> _ How is it that he can have his tongue in Keith’s mouth one moment and then barely form a sentence around him the next? _ <”About you. I want to know you.”> _

Keith frowns as he follows Lance’s gestures. His expression has shot past questioning all the way into utterly confused.

“What?”

Lance throws his hand up again in exasperation. Why is he so bad at communicating? How else can he tell Keith that he just wants to know more about him?

_ <”YOU!”> _

He signs wildly. Keith even goes so far as to lip one arm up in front of him, as if to shield himself from an impending attack.

_ <”Know you!”> _

Lance shoots Keith an imploring look, trying to pour everything he’s trying to say behind it.

And then it’s like someone’s turned on a light behind Keith’s eyes, his whole face brightening a touch as his eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh,” he says.

It’s a cute, surprised little noise. Lance feels the happiness bubble in his chest a millisecond before the grin splits his face, sweeping from ear to ear.

“Ummmm, what do you wanna know?” Keith asks.

He’s looking as if the topic is peculiar, a little nervous, a little confused, but Lance supposes he would be too if someone made a fuss about getting to know him. In one fluid motion, he folds his legs underneath him, plonking his butt down on the soft earth. Keith follows suit after Lance pats the patch of ground next to him.

They sit facing each other, cross legged, knees touching. Lance reaches out one hand a traces a line down Keith shin. It doesn’t take long before Keith captures Lance’s hand, lacing it together with his own, no option of escape.

“I can’t sign if you do that,” Lance warns.

Keith just shrugs. There’s something twisting his mouth. It’s not quite a smile, not yet. It’s the promise of a smile, the potential for a smile. A smile begging for provocation so that it can burst forth with the necessary justification.

“How old were you when you knew you were gay?”

The question blurts out of Lance’s mouth without him even thinking.

_Great fucking start, Leandro._

Keith actually scoffs, his eyebrows disappearing waaaay up into his hairline. Aaaaah, but there’s the smile. Lance has coaxed it out from his lips on the first attempt.

“I guess I always knew, really,” Keith starts. “Even as a kid, when I watched movies or read books. It was always the hero I was intrigued by. As far back as I can remember, it’s always been boys.”

He strokes the squishy pad of his thumb over the peaks and valleys of Lance’s knuckles. The affection of it warms Lance to the very core. It strikes him that it’s strange he’s getting used to seeing Keith like this, when he’s quiet, contemplative. When the walls he puts up to keep the world out are lowered for just a moment, a moment where Lance is being let in.

“What about you?”

Lance straightens up slightly, his eyes flicking up towards the clouds hanging overhead. He lets out a big gust of breath as the memory of his first same sex attraction comes back to him with all the fondness of a freight train.

“Stefan Tomlinson,” he says the name like an expletive. “He was on my old swim team. Two years older than me, always used to give me good pointers and a lot of encouragement. At first I thought he was just a really cool guy and that I wanted to be like him. Then I found myself wanting to talk to him loads and be around him all the time. Because I thought he was cool, you know?

Turns out I just had a big fat crush on the guy.”

Lance laughed awkwardly at that last part. Realising he liked boys as well as girls wasn’t the most comfortable memory in his archive. Keith clearly cottoned on to Lance’s discomfort, his hold on the other boy’s fingers tightening for a second.

“What happened?” he enquired gently.

Lance shrugged. He rolled the thin fabric of his shirt between one thumb and forefinger.

“As you would expect. I tried to kiss him when we were alone in the locker room together and he flat out rejected me. Said a load of stuff about how it wasn’t like that and he was just being nice because he thought I had a lot of promise blah blah blah.”

Even recanting the experience made something long forgotten ache in Lance’s soul, the words stinging his throat on their way out. It was a scab that Lance didn’t want to pick at. Keith’s frown deepened.

“What did you do?”

“Only thing I could do,” Lance replied with a shrug. “Quit the swim team the next day and never spoke to him again.”

“Don’t you miss swimming?”

“Hey-” Lance poked the cushion of Keith’s calf in playful admonishment. “We were supposed to be talking about you.”

“You’re the one who brought up liking boys.”

“Yeah. and now I’m moving on.”

Keith rolled his eyes but complied nonetheless.

“Okay, wise-guy. Got any other brilliant questions asides from my sexuality?”

Lance perked up at once.

“As a matter of fact I do! Do you have any pets?”

“Pets aren’t allowed on campus.”

Now it was Lance’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I know _that._ I mean at home. Like, home home. Not at university home.”

“I know what ‘home home’ means Lance.”

“Shut up, just answer the question.”

Keith tilts his head to think for a second. His bangs fall away from his eyes, the light from the sunset momentarily stroking up the side of his face with an amber wash of colour.

“Yeah, I’ve got a gecko.”

Lance scoffs.

“A _gecko?”_

Keith looks remarkably offended, and for a second, Lance is worried he’s going to snatch his hand away just to retaliate.

“What’s wrong with a gecko?!” he snaps defensively.

Lance can’t help it. He takes one second to imagine a small scruffy kid with Keith’s messy hair protectively cradling an even smaller lizard and just _loses it._ He throws his head back, the force of his laughter so strong that it threatens to tip him over. And he would have, were it not for Keith’s hand instinctively tightening around his to keep Lance from losing his balance.

“Oh my god,” he wheezes between chortles. “I just- Fuck! I just got this image of you with this fucking lizard and _oh my god!”_

Keith’s pout is remarkable. And it is definitely a pout, his bottom lip is jutting out an inch to far for it to be classed as a scowl.

“Shut up. Her name is Lizzy.”

Lance nearly rolls over with a fresh peal of laughter.

_“Wow!_ Lizzy the lizard. Very creative.”   
“Gecko.”

“You’re a nerd.”

“You love it.”

Lance almost coughs up a lung. Keith seems to realise what he’s said the nanosecond after the words leap out of his mouth.

“Shit!”

He rips his hand away from Lance’s, as if by removing physical contact he can erase what’s already been spoken.

“Shit, sorry! I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine!”

Lance holds up his hands, in either reassurance or surrender, he’s not sure which.

“You’re fine,” he says again.

Keith still looks panicked, his pupils retreating into pinpricks in the centre of his wide rounded eyes. Gingerly, Lance reaches out, connecting their hands again.

“I-” He swallows. “I do _like_ it.”

The look Keith gives him is dripping with sarcasm.

“Wow, Lance, don’t hurt yourself.”

“Hey!” Lance can feel his cheeks burning. He feels distinctly queasy. “I’m really trying here!”

Keith’s whole posture unravels into something softer, kinder, more understanding.

“Yeah. I know. I’m… I want to try, too.”

It’s a quiet admission, but Lance holds onto each word like it’s sacred. He studies Keith’s face, the way the shorter boy keeps his eyes averted, occasionally flicking up to Lance’s before hiding away again. It’s such a fragile moment, Lance is overwhelmed by the responsibility of not shattering it. He could say one word and tip the scales so far that they unhinge entirely.

In the end, he settles for nodding, giving Keith the most reassuring smile he can muster. He doesn’t know if it’s the right move, but the violinist seems to uncoil like a spring so Lance takes that as a good sign.

“Can we just move past that?” Keith asks.

Lance nods again, humming quietly to himself.

“Favourite colour?”

It’s a safe question, it feels as stable as the ground they’re sitting on. Keith answers without hesitation.

“Blue.”

When Lance quirks an eyebrow in response, he elaborates.

“Like… Not like a sky blue. More like the ocean. Kinda like navy?”

“Any particular reason?”

Pink paints a stain high on Keith’s cheekbones. His next words are mumbled, heavy with embarrassment.

“I just like the colour of your eyes.”

Lance pokes him in the bicep.

“Who knew you were such a romantic?”

“What about you?”

“Red. Colour of passion, baby.”

To punctuate his sentence, Lance waggles his eyebrows, shooting Keith a devilish grin. Keith just puts his whole hand over Lance’s face, smushing his features enough to pull an indignant squawk from Lance’s mouth.

“So why violin?” Lance asks once he’s managed to push Keith’s invasive palm away.

Keith shrugs.

“I just liked the sound it made.”

And oh. The sharp _pang_ Lance feels in his chest seems to echo through his entire body. He feels a bone-deep ache throughout his limbs, and he has zero control over how his eyebrows pinch together. Keith’s eyes flash.

“I told you not to look at me like that.”

Lance schools his features in an instant. “Sorry.”

A silence falls between them, thick like tar. It drags on more than Lance wants it to, but eventually Keith lets out a sigh.

“The truth is, I really miss music. Everyone thinks it’s great that I’m still playing, but honestly? Sometimes I want to give up. I just don’t see the point in pursuing violin if I can’t enjoy it myself.”

Lance feels sorrow wrap around his core like a demon, digging its claws in.

“Keith,” he starts, lifting one hand to cup the other boy’s cheek. He tilts Keith’s chin up so that he can’t hide behind his fringe. “No one expects you _not_ to be upset about this. And you know I think you’re insanely talented. But if violin isn’t making you happy, then you can always do something else.”

Keith’s voice is strained. It sounds like the words are physically hurting him.

“But I don’t _have_ anything else!”

“You can find something!” Lance insists.

Keith looks doubtful, but he keeps his eyes trained on Lance’s lips. It’s as clear and indication as any that he’s still seeking reassurance, so Lance forges ahead.

“Maybe you just need a new angle?” he suggests. He’s flying by the seat of his pants, but Keith’s eyes are still bright and attentive so he continues regardless. “Maybe instead of focusing on how it _sounds,_ you can focus on how it makes you _feel._ ”

Keith studies him, brows knitting together, his jaw working as if he’s rolling the idea around in his mouth just to get a taste of it.

“I don’t know,” he hesitates. “But it feels nice when I’m playing violin with you.”

Lance softens at the admission. He opens his arms in a wide circle, stretched away from him, reaching for Keith.

“C’mere.”

The half moon of his stance is invitation enough, and Keith shimmies himself into the space between Lance’s outstretched arms, tucking his head in the crook of the taller boy’s neck. He lets out a contented sigh, and Lance feels Keith go boneless in his arms. He chuckles slightly, and Keith makes a soft noise.

“Say something.”

It’s a small request, but it comes with a detonator. Lance just needs to flick it to blow this whole moment up into something much larger.

“Hola, lindo.”

Keith grunts, clearly displeased at the brevity.

“Say something else.”

Lance complies with a short laugh. With little ceremony, he starts singing. It’s hushed, and his voice is husky, making it into more of a warble as the notes quiver through his throat, but that’s fine. It’s not for the rest of the world, anyway.

It’s for Keith.

Just Keith and him, and the view of the town as the fading sunlight dyes the mountains a spectrum of colour, winking through cerise, then lavender, then periwinkle. When it finally bleeds into navy, Lance releases Keith, offering a hand to help him stand. The shorter boy takes it, leaning into Lance as they make their way back down the hill. The pianist wraps an arm around his shoulders, shifting his hips as Keith’s arm snakes around his waist. And as Keith kisses him goodnight, holding his face tenderly between his calloused hands, Lance thinks, _yeah._

_I want to try, too._

 

**

 

It was times like these that Lance was reminded of actually how _big_ Altea University was. He’d always been aware of the vastness of the campus grounds, but it was when Iverson had announced that the showcase would be taking place in the main theatre that Lance was suddenly slapped with the reality that _yeah._ Altea was _huge._

So much so that the main performance theatre had been aptly nicknamed “The Opera House”. When Lance had walked into it for the first time, he’d been overwhelmed with the size of the venue. Rows upon rows of red velvet seats stacked upon themselves in a rich crescent that ascends up, up, up into the stands of the royal circle. The high ceiling towers over the audience with an infallible authority, the painted cherubs that cross the plaster supervising the performance as well as its enjoyment. The way they smile brightly as they float by on oil work clouds make it seem as if they too were delighted by the shows. Lance had only ever heard someone play in the hall once, for practice. It had been a young cellist, auditioning for a scholarship. But the way the sound had filled the auditorium, the rich noise bouncing around every acoustic corner had had Lance’s fingers flexing on instinct.

He’d woken that morning with an unpleasant flux of giddy excitement and thick dread, his tongue sticking to his mouth between both sensations.

Because today was the day.

Today was the showcase.

He eats breakfast mechanically, not really tasting the food but swallowing it anyway, all muscle memory and routine. Hunk shoots him a worried look across the table, his fingers knitting together with concern for his best friend. It’s only when Lance misses his mouth for possibly the third (fourth? fifth?) time whilst reading over his sheet music that the broad boy hops to his feet.

“Okay!” he announces, the volume of his voice alone jolting Lance out of his reverie. “We’re getting you outside before your eyes can burn a hole in that piece of music.”

Before Lance can say anything, Hunk snatches the precious sheet music out of his grasp.

“Hunk!”

Lance lunges across the table, his belt catching on the wood and yanking harshly across his abdomen. Hunk is already out of reach, stuffing the sheet music into Lance’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“Ah ah ah!” he wags a finger in Lance’s face. “You get this back once you’ve walked to the coffee shop and picked up my and Pidge’s order.”

Lance gives up, letting his already tilted body go limp to slump across the tabletop.

“Huuuuuunk,” he wails. “Why are you being mean to me? You know what today is!”

The engineer gets as close as he dares to pat Lance soothingly on the head.

“Because. I know what you get like when you stress about stuff, and I know that the walk will do you good. Plus, I don’t really wanna go myself so. Two birds, one stone.”

Lance sighs. It pulls the breath out all the way from his toes.

“Fiiiiiiiiiine.”

With as much drama as he can muster, Lance flips onto his back and slips gracelessly off the table. He doesn’t need to see Hunk to know that his best friend is rolling his eyes.

Hunk was right though. As soon as Lance steps outside, he feels a little better. The sunlight soaks his closed eyelids in warm pink rays, and Lance takes a deep inhale of the crisp morning air, allowing himself a brief moment to feel how his lungs expand inside his chest. There’s a small ‘pop’ behind his sternum, a brief ‘click’ between his shoulders blades. Lance tries his best to let the tension bleed of his muscles with his next exhale. It halfway works.

Luckily for him, the cafe isn’t too busy this morning. Shay waves amicably at him as he walks in, her solid arm extending over the heads of the few customers by the til.

“Hey! Are you here for the squad usual?” she calls.

“You know it!” Lance grins back.

“Just a second!”

Shay ducks out from behind the register to shove a hand written order at the barista, Olia, a petite girl with choppy, mousy brown hair and big hazel puppy dog eyes. Lance ignores the glares he’s getting from the customers ahead of him. He wasn’t sure how it was everywhere else, but at the Paladin café, employees and friends got free coffee and the privilege of jumping the queue. A thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Hey, Shay!”

“Hm?”

Shay’s head poked round from behind the till.

“Could I also get a long black with an extra shot? Please?”

“Sure,” Shay agreed easily. Her smile was sly, though. “Someone special joining you?”

If Lance could fight his own bodily functions he would. He would slap the blush right off his own cheeks.

“I’m just…. Practising with Keith today. It’s the showcase later so…”

Shay’s grin stretches from ear to ear.

“Well I think it is _wonderful_ that you two are getting along so well. Especially after you tried so hard to learn how to sign.”

Lance groaned. He didn’t really have the energy to explain the whole ASL thing now, and he was sure that Shay knew and was capitalising on that fact. She just shot him another splendid grin, this time accompanied with a wink, and went back to serving customers.

Not two minutes later, Olia was stuffing four cups of steaming hot beverages into a stiff cardboard tray.

“One large salted caramel latte with 4 shots, a camomile tea, one peppermint mocha with whipped cream aaaaaaaand a long black with an extra shot,” Olia listed off.

Lance smiled gratefully at her, taking the tray from her outstretched hand.

“Thanks, shortcake.”

“Bite me,” Olia retorted. Her tone was playful though, and she gave Lance a happy little wave as he left the coffee shop.

Like the good friend he was, Lance dutifully dropped off Pidge’s latte and Hunk’s tea. The broad boy held the steaming paper cup reverently as Lance deposited it into his hands, but he hesitated before taking the first sip.

“You might need this more than me buddy. I know what anxiety does to you.”

Lance waved him off, brandishing his own takeaway drink.

“Fear not, my beautiful sunshine man. I have sugar and I have caffeine and I have-”

“An extra drink?” Hunk interrupted.

He was eyeing the fourth cup sat innocently in the card carrier.

“A practice session to get to,” Lance corrected.

“Did you add Keith’s order to our usual?” Hunk enquired.

He was being nosy. Lance knew he was being nosy, because if there was anything Hunk loved more than cooking, it was gossip. And nine times out of ten, Lance was the one feeding his unhealthy addiction.

“Can’t a guy just buy another guy a nice average coffee in peace anymore?”

“That depends if this ‘other guy’ is like a ‘bro friend’ or if he’s like a _friend_ friend.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You know,” Hunk tapped the tips of his index fingers together. Bizarrely. With the tips pointed at each other like jousting poles. “If you’re _friendly._ ”

“I don’t know _what_ you’re doing with your hands but frankly I’m a little concerned about the type of porn you’re watching.”

“Hey, if you and Keith do it differently, that’s your own business.”

Hunk lifts both his hands up like he’s trying to avoid touching something. Like the whole topic of conversation.

“We _don’t_ do _anything!_ ” Lance hisses vehemently. “That’s not- We don’t do that stuff, Hunk! Or, we haven’t… Yet. I don’t know-”

“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Hunk says, pushing a finger to Lance’s hazardly flapping lips.

“I don’t want to know the details of any weird mutual touching you two have been doing. You can just say which base it is and leave it at that. That’s all the info Hunk needs.”

Lance splutters, his face erupting in a shade of red that could rival a fire hydrant.

“I’m leaving!” he squeaks, snatching the bag with his composition that Hunk had surrendered in favour of his tea. “Lance OUT!”

He skips down the hall before Hunk can say something else horrifically embarrassing.

At least he’s not thinking too hard about the performance later now. No, his head is too riled up about Keith and _bases._ What base had they even got too, anway? Second, maybe?

Lance has gotten so sucked into the vortex of his own mind that he only realises his legs have carried him all the way to the practice room when he nearly walks smack bang into the door. He rights himself quickly, twisting his arm to avoid spilling any coffee. He pushes into the room only to find Keith there already, lazily running resin up and down the horsehair of his bow.

“Hey!” Lance greets him brightly. “I got coffee!”

He brandishes the tray at Keith who just watches with wide, curious eyes.

“You got coffee?” he asks, brow furrowing.

“Uh yeah,” Lance suddenly feels nervous. Was that weird? No, wait, shut up. He’d literally had his tongue in Keith’s mouth, he was allowed to buy him a hot drink. “Black with an extra shot right?”

“Right,” Keith confirms. “Just…”

He trails off, dropping his bow back into the case before reaching behind him to pick up an identical tray holding two coffees.

“Peppermint mocha with whipped cream?”

Lance nearly drops the drinks.

“Oh my god,” he breathes. “Twice the caffeine! YES!”

He fists pumps the air, grinning madly at Keith who just watches him with a small, confused smile.

“I didn’t get that,” he admits. “But I guess we’ve both got two coffees now.”

Lance ducks down to give Keith a kiss on the cheek. Keith nearly drops his own tray.

“You seem… Energetic,” he remarks cooly. “I was kind of expecting you to be spinning out.”

Lance puts the coffees on the piano top before turning to sign.

_ <”I was. But now we practice.”> _

He tries not to wince at how stilted his sign language must seem. Connecting words were… Tricky.

“Okay,” Keith smiles softly as he picks up his violin and bow. “Do you wanna go from the revision?”

Lance nods yes and lifts his hands to spread the sheets of music across the lip of the piano. He spreads his fingers wide, arching across the keys before giving Keith a nod and beginning to play.

The revision to the music was something they’d been working on together. Keith had made a few suggestions that Lance had molded and shaped and snowballed into what was now probably the most technically difficult part of the piece. And where Lance was usually so confident in his skills, the new bars gave way to the seed of doubt. He could feel it growing in his heart like some sort of cancer.

And that was why he’d been drilling himself so hard. Hammering out the notes over and over until they became one fluid practised movement, until they became so ingrained in his muscle memory that he could play the notes in his sleep.

The music swelled to a crescendo, dipped back down into gentleness, until the last notes of the violin were being pulled out of the instrument by Keith’s talented fingers, Lance’s hands on the piano following shortly after. They paused a moment, waiting for the resounding ring of the final note disperse like gas before Keith gave a curt nod.

“That was good. You weren’t screwing your face up like you do when you’re worried.”

“Excuse you. I do not _screw my face up_ ,” Lance argued. “I look pretty all the time.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Which one?”

Keith lowered his instrument.

“Both.”

Lance felt a tingle of warmth beneath his skin. It was hard to be genuinely offended when Keith was looking at him like that, eyes full of fondness and patience. He clenches his teeth together. Better to be silent than to start flailing and making a fool out of himself. Normally Lance wouldn’t have such restraint, but today he feels coiled tighter than a spring.

Keith is peering at him strangely, his mouth working like he’s trying to stop words from wrestling their way through his lips.

Lance raises his eyebrows, his shoulders shrugging minutely.

_What?_

Keith scratches the back of his neck with one hand, his bow sweeping up to point skywards, wobbling with the micro movement of Keith’s fingers.

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “You just… Look nice when you blush.”

“Oh.”

Lance can feel his ears burning. He clears his throat loudly, probably more loudly than strictly necessary.

“From the top?”

Keith blinks at him, nonplussed. Lance signs it out.

_ <”From the start?”> _

“Yeah, sure,” Keith says, tucking the chin rest of his violin under his sharp jawline in preparation. “Count me in?”

Lance nods his head, his lips moving. _One, two, three, four…_

And the duet bursts from both of them once again.

 

**

 

“Lance, are you alright?”

The pianist blinks up from where his eyes have been resting on the keys. Keith is looking at him, a thin layer of concern coating his features. He’s trying to hide it behind steely nonchalance, but Lance knows him better now. It seemed to him that the more aggressive Keith got about something, the more he cared about it. He just wasn’t great at expressing himself.

That was okay, though. Lance was learning the telltale signs (pun intended). When Keith crossed his arms, he was defensive. When he looked down, he was vulnerable. And when he was shooting an accusatory glare, it was because he was worried.

He was glaring at Lance like that now.

Lance taps his fist down.

_ <”Yeah, I’m fine.”> _

He doesn’t feel fine. In fact, he feels like he might throw up.

The thought of playing in front of so many scouts it really starting to get to him. Lance can feel it gnawing through his skull like a particularly driven piranha. He offers Keith a weak smile, an appeasement. Keith doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he plonks himself down on the piano stool next to Lance, giving the taller boy a light shove to make room.

Lance squawks a protest, but Keith ignores it. He may pettily be averting his eyes so as not to lipread Lance’s indignant tirade.

“I’m nervous,” he admits bluntly.

Lance pauses. Only Keith would manage to make opening up sound as soft as a sledgehammer.

“Hey,” Lance says quietly. He reaches out, taking one of Keith’s hands in his own.

The dark haired boy turns to look at him, face open and expectant.

“It’s gonna be okay, dude. I’m gonna be right there with you.”

Keith’s smile is grateful, his shoulders slumping a little as he relaxes.

“Back at you,” he grins.

And just like that, Lance realises Keith has made him feel more confident by getting Lance to reassure someone else. It was complete reverse psychology. Lance didn’t believe he could stand up and fight his corner as he was, but Keith knew that he’d damn well get up and fight for a friend.

He thinks that maybe Keith is learning telltale things about him, too.

The shorter boy leans in to press a kiss at Lance’s temple, his rough fingers carding up over the skin of Lance’s neck to bury in his cropped brown hair.

“The showcase starts at seven,” he murmurs, mouth hovering just above Lance’s ear.

It makes the pianist shiver.

“We need to get there for six thirty so I’ll swing by and pick you up at six?”

“Sounds good. Did you get your suit?”

“Yeah. It’s so stuffy though. I feel like a butler.”

“Probs look like one too.”

Keith punches Lance lightly in the arm, a grin dashing his features and sparking his eyes with mischief.

“Hey, _careful,_ buddy. I need this hand for tonight.”

“So do I.”

Lance decides he’s going to take out life insurance. Because Keith is surely going to kill him.

“I mean!” Keith face palms so hard that for a second Lance thinks he’s blinded himself. The violinist takes a deep breath in. “I just meant, that I also need you to have both hands for the performance.”

“Sure you did.”

“I hate you.”

“Sure, Jan.”

Keith cocks his head to the side.

“Who’s Jan?”

“Never mind,” Lance waves him off with a roll of his eyes.

He stands, gathering his sheet music and stuffing it into his bag. By this point, he’s already transposed a few copies of it, in the case it ever goes missing again. But having the original version is nice. It’s hard evidence that _he_ created it. That he took a random assortment of notes and breathed a bit of his soul into them, that he injected life into something.

Keith’s phone beeped, interrupting his puzzled frown. He fishes it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. A second later, he face splits into an elated grin.

“What’s that?” Lance queries.

He’s not being nosy. He’s being _curious._

Keith unsurprisingly ignores him until Lance waves his arms to get the other boy’s attention.

“What?”

Lance jerks his chin in the direction of the phone, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

“Oh, it’s-er…” Keith’s smile bleeds off his face, leaving him looking suddenly very awkward.

“It’s the hospital,” He finally confesses.

Lance stops. He feels like he’s holding a handful of puzzle pieces that just won’t fit together no matter how hard he jams them. Shiro mentioning the hospital, Keith frowning at his phone, his unexplained absences from class, Shiro signing _‘hospital’_...

“It’s-” Keith struggles for the word.

“Private?” Lance offers.

The shorter boy nods grimly, his mouth set in an uncomfortable line. He looks remarkably unhappy, a jarring contrast to his beaming smile from seconds ago.

“Look, if you don’t want to tell me then don’t feel like you have to,” Lance sighs. “It’s your business.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you,” Keith starts. “It’s just… I wanted to wait until it was all over.”

Lance frowns. Another puzzle piece slots sideways into the jumble inside his brain.

“I will tell you what’s going on,” Keith promises when Lance’s silence becomes uncomfortable. “I’ll explain everything. Just… After the showcase. Please.”

It’s hard, but Lance manages to gulp down his pride. It’s a hard swallow, but he nods firmly. Keith seems to relax, his smile even flickering back to life, even if it’s just a glimmer.

“I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yeah, see you tonight.”

Keith stands as well, then, stepping out from behind the piano.

“Oh! And Lance?”

Lance feels warm rough fingers scoop around the back of his neck, twisting him into place. He lets out a very surprised squeak as Keith’s lips collide with his own. After a second he closes his eyes, melting into the feeling of Keith’s hand snaking around his waist to rest against his lower back, and the wet tongue darting into his mouth, explorative and unapologetic. Lance breathes out a soft moan, feeling how Keith smirks against his mouth. Smug bastard. The shorter boy’s hand leaves Lance’s hair, drifting down the plane of his cheek, over his jawbone, until his fingers hung loosely against Lance’s jugular. The pad of Keith’s thumb presses tenderly at the hollow of Lance’s throat. Without warning, Keith bites down hard on Lance’s lower lip, teeth sinking ferociously into the soft flesh. Lance gasps out a startled cry, his jaw dropping as his hips bucked involuntarily. Keith’s grin is positively wolfish.

“I felt that,” he gloats, tapping his thumb against Lance’s throat.

Ah. The vibrations. Lance should’ve seen Keith turning that into something… More.

“I’ll see you at six,” he growls. Or murmurs. It's hard to tell when he was looking at Lance like he might devour him.

And without another word, Keith turns on his heel and stalked out of the music room, leaving Lance to gawk behind him.

The pianist swallows against his suddenly dry mouth. He feels about ten degrees too hot in his shirt. Had he really just made that noise? Keith had _felt_ him moan.

A slow round of applause breaks the contemplative silence that had settled in the music room. Right away it sounds mocking.

“Oh woooooow,” came a chillingly familiar drawl. “Do you’re _fucking_ now?”

Lance works his fiercest scowl on to his face before turning to glare at the unwelcome intruder.

Leaning against the doorframe, sporting the most malicious smirk Lance had ever seen, is Zach. He looks as if the very prospect of commenting is boring him, and yet he's too conniving to sacrifice the opportunity.

“That’s none of your business,” Lance snarls. He really isn’t in the mood to deal with any shit, not today.

“Maybe not,” Zack says, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Lance’s glare. “Maybe he’s softening you up so that you’ll let your guard down and then he’ll swoop in and take all the glory for himself.”

“Maybe you’re full of shit,” Lance spits back.

He can feel the words burrowing into him, sliding under his skin like glass, pinching and razor edged.

“Or maybe I’m right,” Zach continues in that droll tone. God, his voice sounded like a can opener.

“Nice piece,” he remarks.

Lance blinks at the 180 degree turn in conversation.

“Let’s hope you really shine through against all of-” The big guy waves his hand vaguely in the direction Keith had walked off. _“That.”_

“Where do you get off?” Lance snaps. “Seriously? What is your goal here?”

Zach’s lip curls. He seems to be enjoying himself immensely.

“Why, I’m merely interested in watching the best talent out there getting the right… _Opportunity_ to perform.”

Before Lance can try and parse his cryptic words, the large boy swings his crossed legs apart and steps away down the hall. The entire exchange leavs Lance with a chilling feeling of dread seeping down his spine. It sits in his stomach like a rock, and he feels his knees buckle with the weight of it. He sits back down on the piano stool with a dull thud. He wishes it didn’t sound so much like the hammer of a gavill.

_Don’t,_ he tells himself. _Don’t think about it._ But his internal voice is strained, brittle even to his own ears.

So Lance does what he knows how to. He lifts his hands, settling his fingers over the ivory keys of the mini grand, and he _plays._ He plays everything he can from memory. Mozart, Chopin, Bach, Beethoven, Yann Tiersen, freaking Final Fantasy 10’s _‘To Zanarkand’._ Anything he can remember how to play, Lance lets flow out of his fingers like a dam breaking. He thinks at one point he’s broken one of the piano keys. The plastic coating on the wood cracks, a hair thin line spiking up the white veneer like a spinal cord. Lance swears, dropping his aching hands finally.

He feels a little better, at least. The gnaw of guilt and self doubt have waned, leaving him feeling like a scooped out avocado shell.

“Lance?”

Lance’s head snaps up at the sound of his name. Hunk is leaning in the doorway of the music room, his face full of concern and trepidation.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Er, yeah,” Lance smiles thinly at his best friend. “What’s up?”

“Well, I bumped into Keith in the cafeteria and he said that you two finished practising. When you didn’t come home I got worried so I thought ‘if I was Lance where would I be?’ and naturally I thought the music room so I just sorta made my way ove-”

“Hunk, buddy,” Lance interrupts. “The point?”

“Oh right! Sorry! It’s five o’clock?”

_“It’s five o’lock?!”_

Lance leaps up from the piano stool, knocking it over in the process. He scrambles to set it right, glancing at his watch in the meantime. Sure as the light of day, there are the traitorous hands sitting mockingly on the clock face. Five. O. Clock.

“SHIT!”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying!” Hunk hops on the bandwagon.

“I can’t believe it’s that late already! I’m barely gonna have time to put a face mask on and straighten my hair! Do you know how long it takes me to get ready??”

“Uh, yes. Yes I do. That’s why I came to find you.”

Lance pauses grabbing his things long enough to let a wash of genuine gratitude flow through him as he watches his best friend fret on the threshold.

“Hunk!” Lance sweeps his arms around Hunk’s broad shoulders and squeezes tightly. “Thank you! What would I do without?”

“Die, probably.”

Lance doesn’t have time to retort right now. He charges across campus back towards his dorm, taking full advantage of the length of his legs. He makes it there in less than five minutes, cheeks flushed and panting hard. He throws himself into the shower, scrubbing himself with as many lotions and in as many nooks and crannies he has time for right now. By the time he’s done it’s already been twenty minutes.

As Lance leaps out of the bathroom, he spares himself a second to glance in the mirror. He eyes his damp hair regretfully - There aren’t enough minutes for him to dry and straighten it now. He’ll have to sacrifice that part of his routine in favour of actually getting some clothes on.

Hunk had come with him to pick out a suit earlier in the week, dragging an extremely disgruntled Pidge along with them. She’d pointedly refused to comment on every single piece Lance had picked out, sticking her nose stubbornly in a text book. It was only after maybe the seventeenth suit and the umpteenth time of Lance begging for her opinion that she spared him a moment to cast her eyes up and down his well-tailored form. Her eyebrows had raised slightly before she’d said “That one’s nice.”

Lance had rented it on the spot.

Staring at his reflection now, he was grateful for Pidge’s comment. It _was_ a nice suit.

He’d opted for plain black slacks and polished midnight Oxford shoes, deciding to keep his lower half simple so as not to overwhelm. The jacket, however, was the accent. A deep rich navy blue, the fibres caught the light when they folded, creating fleeting rivers of cobalt over her torso. The white shirt underneath really made the warm brown of his skin stand out, and he’d literally tied a bow on top of all of it with a black bow tie hanging just below his throat. Dipping in his closet, he fished out a pair of plain silver cufflinks. They were delicately carved into Lion faces. Lance had always found them finicky to put on, but he’d kept them all the same since he’d thought them so beautiful.

His hair has since dried, falling into its natural floaty waves. Lance has tried his best to tame it with a much needed dollop of wax, but it still rolled across his head like the tide so he’d given up with a resigned sigh.

There’s a soft knock at his door, and Lance shoots his unruly hair one last wistful look before going to answer it.

It’s Keith. Of course it’s Keith, it’s six o’clock and he said he’d pick Lance up at six.

But it’s Keith like Lance has never seen him before.

For one thing, he actually looks tidy and not like the all too realistic version of “I woke up like this”.

For two, he looks _good._ Like, _really good._

Lance swallows thickly. He wasn’t really prepared for this.

Keith is dressed head to toe in black. His suit looks expensive, no doubt wool blend, pressed to crisp perfection. His black brogue shoes gleam brightly even in the dim light of the eco bulbs hanging overhead. Even his shirt is black, sitting taught under his jacket, not a wrinkle in sight. The only exception is the burgundy red accent of his tie, stitched with diamond crossed satin threaded which shines when he turns to face Lance. He’s even tied his hair up in a low ponytail, the short choppy hair poking out just above the collar at the back of his neck, and it’s doing something to Lance’s insides that probably isn’t healthy.

“Woah,” Lance breathes reverently.

Keith doesn’t seem to be too composed himself.

“You look…” he trails off.

“Uh-” Lance is suddenly, keenly aware that he’s just standing in the doorway gawking. He takes an awkward shuffling step to the side. “Come in.”

Keith moves past him in a weird sort of gliding step. He can’t seem to take his eyes of Lance, and it makes makes the taller boy preen internally. Not that he’s opposed to preening externally. In fact, here’s the chance to do so.

“Like what you see?” he asks.

He lifts his arms, turning around in a slow circle to allow Keith a full view of his suit.

“Yeah,” Keith chokes out after a second. “I… Is your hair naturally like that?”

Lance grimaces, self consciously lifting a hand to push away a stray curl that’s hanging in front of his eyes, taunting him.

“Unfortunately.”

“It’s nice,” Keith says in a hushed voice. His cheeks are glowing. “You- You look good.”

Lance can appreciate the sentiment. He kinda wants Keith to step on him when he’s wearing that dark suit. Kinda wonders what it would be like to have Keith use that red tie to bind his hands above his head and feel the dull scratch of that wool bend roam over his sensitive flesh. Maybe Keith would use that tie to blindfold him.

Lance shakes himself vigorously out of that particular day dream. He clamps steel walls down around that idea with all the zeal of a newly converted nun.

_Down, Lance,_ he reprimands himself. _Bad Lance._

Keith snorts to his right.

“Don’t be filthy,” he admonishes.

“I- Wha- _I didn’t say anything!_ ” Lance shrieks indignantly.

Keith just quirks and unimpressed eyebrow.

“Didn’t have to. Body language is a thing, Lance.”

“Now who’s being filthy,” Lance quips.

He punctuates this with a lithe body roll, a hot wave of satisfaction curling in his guy when Keith’s eyes track the movement of his hips.

“We should get going,” he mutters lowly, averting his eyes.

Lance recognises that move. It’s another thing he’s learnt: When Keith wants to avoid something, he hides behind his bangs. Lance lets him, just this one time, because they really do need to get going.

As Keith turns and starts towards the door, though, something catches Lance’s eye.

“Hey wait!”  
He catches Keith by the shoulder before he can move any further away. The shorter boy turns his head in surprise, but Lance just waves his hands at him, holding Keith in place when he tries to turn around.

“You’ve got-” Lance pulls the hem of Keith’s jacket out of his waistband.

He’s amazed Shiro let him leave the house like this. Smoothing his hand over the fabric, Lance meticulously presses away any lingering wrinkles. The suit really is soft. Lance’s little fantasy comes swimming through the back of his mind, making him shiver.

“There,” he concludes as he gives the hem a short tug to straighten it.

His hands are probably lingering longer than they need to but… He’s allowed to indulge himself, right? Keith certainly isn’t complaining, not with the way he’s leaning his weight back a fraction, chasing Lance’s touch. Lance lifts one hand to sweep Keith’s ponytail to the side. He can’t really reach any skin because of the collar of Keith’s black shirt, but Lance dips his head, pressing his lips to the sensitive exposed patch of skin just below Keith’s ear.

The violinist sighs, tipping his head back into Lance’s hand as he goes boneless. Lance smirks triumphantly against his skin.

And then he steps away. Keith wobbles a bit without his impromptu leaning post, but Lance catches him with one arm around the waist.

_ <”Ready?> _he signs.

Keith’s grin is contagious.

“You know it.”

 

**

 

Lance isn’t ready.

He is sooooo not ready for this.

As soon as they’d arrived, Lance had felt overwhelmed by the sheer _amount_ of people who’d turned up. It wasn’t enough that the opera house was big anyway, peeking through the doors it seemed to Lance as if every seat in the whole theatre had been booked out.

Parents, students, faculty, scouts, and many more were bustling about the auditorium, the air thick with chatter and the faintly echoing sounds of instruments being tuned up. What’s worse is that Lance didn’t really realise how _formal_ this event was going to be. Everyone and anyone looks like they’ve pulled out their Sunday best. Velvet and diamonds shift a glitter in the light of the overhanging chandelier. Billowing folds of satin and tulle and velvet and silk swish around Lance in a myriad of colours and sparkles. Normally he’d appreciate such decoration, but right now it’s doing nothing but stimulating his impending nausea.

“I’m not ready,” he says allowed.

Naturally, Keith doesn’t respond. He’s looking in a different direction, indigo eyes sweeping over the crowd like he’s looking for someone. A moment later, he’s grabbing Lance’s arm and tugging him through the throngs of people. Lance sees why a second later. Bouncing up and down in the stalls are Allura and Shiro.

“Lance! Keith!” she exclaims as they approach.

“Hi, Allura,” Keith greets her bashfully.

_Bashfully._ And honestly, same. Allura is dressed in what Lance can only really describe as a haute couture gown. The long sheer sleeves are embroidered with millions of dainty crystals that follow the mesh all the way up to her throat. Some well positioned cutouts of satin scape down her body in long curving lines, edged with swirling appliqué where they grow into the swathes of diamond dotted fabric covering her legs. The oyster cream colour makes the dark brown of her skin almost glow with warmth, complimenting her silver hair beautifully. She’s completely covered, but the way the dress hugs her form like a second skin has Lance’s tongue cementing itself to the roof of his mouth. Her hair is swept up into a complicated knot atop her head, exposing a set of delicate earrings in a rather bright shade of teal.

She looks like a goddess, and Lance feels compelled to avert his eyes, as if he’s rudely staring at something holy.

“Gosh, look at you both!” Allura gushes.

She claps both boys on a shoulder each and OW. Lance had forgotten how strong she was. Keith buckles a bit under the weight of her hand, and Lance moves to support him before Shiro is swooping in, rescuing them from the alien death grip Allura possesses.

<“Good luck out there you two.”>

“Thanks, Shiro,” Keith grins.

Shiro isn’t looking too bad himself. He’s gone for a plain black suit as well, trimmed with silk lapels. He’s opted for a white shirt, however, which makes the inky black of his tie stand out all that much more. He’s even neatened up his tufty forelock. Allura’s handiwork, no doubt.

Standing between the three of them has Lance almost on his knees wheezing as he’s very solidly confronted with the fact that _yes he is extremely bisexual thanks._

Shiro seems to be having a similar issue. Every time he glances at Allura his eyes take on a glassy starstruck type of roundness and his face goes all soft and fond.

“I’m so excited!” Allura cries. “Shiro’s told me all about your duet! He said it’s the most beautiful piece!”

She’s flapping her hands wildly, fingers pointing every which way. It looks like she’s trying to sign something but is bouncing too enthusiastically to make her hands meet. Keith just raises one eyebrow at her skittering fingers but politely doesn’t pass comment. Lance is so distracted he doesn’t even take the opportunity to smile at the praise. A voice raises over the tannoy, urging the attendees to take their seats.

“Ah, we should get going,” Lance mumbles.

“Yes! Shoo shoo!”

Allura flaps them away, shoos disappearing along with the dying chatter as the house lights begin to dim. Keith takes Lance’s hand and guides them back through the undulating crowd of people all the way to backstage. From back here, Lance can hear Principal Alfor thanking the audience for coming, welcoming the representatives from various programs for their attendance, announcing that they will be witnessing a extraordinary lineup of very promising talent.

_That’s us,_ Lance thinks. He tries to make it sound more like an affirmation and not so much like an abolition. Tries to avoid thinking, _That’s everyone but me._

“Hey.”  
Keith draw his attention by looping two fingers loosely around Lance’s bony elbow. He nods his head in the direction of the hallway, a sly smile working its way onto his face. Lance follows his gaze.

“Look who it is.”

Look who it is indeed.

“Rhodes, I need you and your big cello waiting in the wings in five minutes!”

“It’s a double bass!”

“It can be a fucking coffin with elastic bands on it for all I care, just _get in the wings in five!_ ”

Lance nods sagely. “Ah,” he says.

There stands Pidge, clipboard in hand, headset over her ears, making damn well sure that her lack of height is compensated for by her viciously swinging elbows. There’s a ring of nothing surrounding her, the musicians making sure to give her a wide berth. Pidge has that mad sort of glint in her eye that she gets whenever she’s about to snap. Lance usually likes to make himself scarce during those times, but it seems right now that he doesn’t have the luxury.

Pidge spots them before Lance can duck away.

“You two!” she snaps.

Lance’s spine straightens on instinct. Keith snorts at him until Pidge is stomping over and jabbing a lethal index finger in his face. Keith stands up taller immediately. Lance has the good grace not to give him shit about it; Pidge is _scary_ when she wants to be.

“You’re both on in the second half. I want you here at least _fifteen minutes before_.”

“Yes ma’am,” Lance chirps.

“I am not in the mood for any shit today. I’m talking to YOU, Lance.”

Lance points at himself dramatically, giving Keith an outraged look as if he can’t believe the accusation.

“I mean it,” Pidge bites at him. “Not when I’m working with- Oh god there he is.”

Lance turns to follow the direction Pidge is looking in and promptly feels his insides constrict around whatever he’d eaten that day.

Zach is standing at the other end of the hallway sporting a similar clipboard and headset. His smile curves like a knife.

“What is he doing here?” Lance hears himself say.

He sounds ghostly, like his voice has been recorded and played back.

“We’re the technicians for the showcase,” Pidge explains briefly.

It was never her usual style to elaborate, and she doesn’t stray from it now. Instead, she whirls around on both boys again, pointing again for emphatic threat.

“No. Shit. Today.”

Lance nods robotically.

Pidge eyes him savagely for a second before mercifully moving onto her next victim.

Beside Lance, Keith lets out a rush of breath.

“Well that was terrifying,” he quips.

“You should’ve seen her when we ran out of coffee,” Lance shoots back.

He’d had the misfortune of witnessing that one time.

Never again.

Keith looks mildly horrified, but his expression relaxes the further away Pidge gets. Lance frowns suddenly.

“Where’s your violin?”

“What?”

Lance lets go of Keith’s hand to sign the sentence.

“I left it in the other room with all the rest of the string instruments.”

Lance gapes in shock.

“Maybe you should go get it?”

Keith looks… A little constipated, actually. He’s slightly grimacing, and his eyes keep flicking around the room with a nervous energy Lance isn’t used to seeing on him. In fact, now that Lance steps back and really observes, Keith doesn’t look so good.

There’s a light sheen of sweat varnishing his face, and a tightness around his features that make him appear altogether uncomfortable. He winces, one hand shooting up to his hearing aids.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I think I have my hearing aids turned up too high. It’s giving me a headache and I can’t really focus on your lips.”

Lance reaches out instinctively, seeking to comfort through physical contact. He places his hand over the juncture between Keith’s neck and shoulder, feeling how to shorter boy tenses under his fingers. A second later, he removes his hand to sign, sparing Keith the effort of lip reading.

_ <”Okay. You get violin. I get water.”> _

Keith nods gratefully, shooting Lance a strained smile as he twists the dial on his hearing aids down. Lance gives him another conciliatory squeeze on the shoulder before turning and heading off in the direction of the vending machines.

Honestly, being backstage wasn’t that fancy. It was mostly just people shushing each other and trying to find ways to alleviate their own boredom whilst waiting for their turn to perform.

Lance shoves a handful of change into the harshly lit machine, grabbing two bottles of water as the drop out the bottom. He grabs a handful of paper towels as he walks back past the bathrooms as well, just in case.

It doesn’t take long to find Keith. He’s sitting quietly in a room to the side, the door propped open with a fire extinguisher. If Iverson was here there’d probably be a lecture about “proper health and safety” and fire extinguishers not being intended for the purpose of doorsteps or whatever. But he isn’t here, so Lance just makes his way calmly into the room.

Keith sits on the stool of a mini upright piano, tuning his violin with the small device in his lap. Lance sits down next to him and offers a bottle of water. Keith puts his violin back in the case to take it.

“Thanks,” he says gratefully before chugging at least half the bottle in one go.

Lance waits until he’s done to pour some of his own water onto one of the paper towels. Catching Keith’s chin in his hand, he dabs the damp cloth over the shorter boys face, mopping away any lingering sweat before flipping the towel over and drying his skin. Keith smiles appreciatively before picking up his violin again and resuming tuning it. Lance watches him quietly, regarding how to red light at the top of the device shifts through red to amber to green as Keith gets closer to the correct note.

_ <”Do you want me to help?”> _

Keith blinks at him owlishly, tearing his eyes away from the digital tuner. Lance gestures vaguely at the piano they’re sat in front of.

“Oh,” Keith stares for a second. “Yeah. Yes, please.”

Lance can’t help but feel a small bubble of pride swell in his chest. Keith is trusting him to help tune his instrument before what is arguably one of the most important performances of their life.

He flips open the piano cover as Keith stands, lifting his bow in one long arc.

Lance plays a C. Keith echoes, drawing out the note long and slow. When Lance points up, he twists one of the tuning keys a bit before playing the note again and again until Lance nods.

They repeat this until all of Keith’s strings are perfectly in tune with the piano. When Lance nods with a smile at the last correctly tuned note, Keith plays a short melody to test out his violin.

Lance closes his eyes to listen. Even in four bars, Keith can weave pure magic out of his instrument. Lance can’t even bring himself to be jealous, he just enjoys the sound too much. Maybe he really liked the violin. Or maybe he just really liked Keith.

Pidge swung by the room then, shooting each of them daggers.

“We’ve just gone to interval. About thirty minutes before you guys are on,” she tells them.

Even from this distance, she looks ashen and weary.

“You okay, Pidgey?” Lance asks tentatively.

When Pidge was stressed, asking if she was alright was like flipping a coin. Heads you got a grateful smile and a softly spoken answer. Tails and you lose your head.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says with a heavy sigh.

Lance mentally cheers. Heads!

“I just wish that Zach guy wasn’t on this project as well. He’s being really creepy and I think he’s deliberately messing with the tech.”

That makes Lance’s ears prick up. He sits up straighter, leaning forward with fresh interest.

“Really? What’s going on?”

Pidge throws up her hands in exasperation.

“That’s just it! I can _catch him_ doing anything! But lighting cues keep getting thrown out of sync and stuff. I triple check them because I’m paranoid, but even when I reset them and come back, something’s happened again. It means I have to go back to the box between each performance.”

A troubled look passes over her face like a black cloud.

“And I think he’s got one of his experiments here. I thought it was Rover at first, I nearly tripped over it.”

Lance doesn’t like the sound of that. It’s far more ominous than it should be.

“I’ll keep an eye out for him,” Lance promises.

But Pidge shakes her head.

“No, you guys just focus on the performance. It’s my job to deal with him.”

And before Lance can protest, she’s whisked away down the hall. Keith watches the exchange with anxious curiosity. He seems to shake it off though, dropping his bow by his hips.

“Guess we’d better get ready,” Keith sighs.

Lance nods, standing to step away from the piano stool.

_ <”Are you feeling better?”> _

Keith shrugs.

“Kind of. My head still hurts a bit. I was thinking of just taking my hearing aids out all together.”

Lance eyes the hearing aids dubiously.

“You sure you wanna do that?”

“Yeah, I think it’d help,” Keith replies. “I can’t feel the music if I’m being distracted by this weird ringing noise.”

Lance frowns deeply at Keith’s words, his perplexed gaze following the violinists hands as he plucks the hearing aid out of each of his ears.

“I’m gonna go put these somewhere safe,” Keith tells him.

He puts his violin carefully back in the case, leaving the lid open as he starts towards the door.

Keith’s barely gone a minute when Lance hears a grotesque chuckle. He already knows who it is.

Zach is lounging in the doorway much as he had earlier that day, his grin a twisted gash across his face. He seems particularly amused at some private joke.

“What?” Lance snaps.

Zach doesn’t say a word. He just nods at Keith’s violin and makes a snipping motion with two fingers.

“Time to shine,” he drawls menacingly.

And then he’s gone.

The door seems to yawn wider without him lurking in the frame, blocking out the light of the hallway. Lance’s eyes travel to Keith’s violin, sat polished and gleaming mahogany in it’s red crushed velvet case. It really is a beautiful instrument. And well used, too. Lance can see the wear around the neck and chin rest from years of practice.

_Cut his strings._

The words leap through Lance’s mind like a carousel horse. He nearly slaps himself he recoils so violently from the very idea. He looks at Keith’s violin again. It’s staring at him from across the room, shiny and mocking and so woefully unprotected.

_Keith trusts you,_ Lance reminds himself. _Don’t do this._

But Lance’s mind _does_ do this.

For a split second, he’s flooded with the fancies of sabotage. One snapped string, one opportunity to improvise his half of the duet into a passable solo-

Lance slaps his hands over his ears, as if by doing so he can drown out the voices in his own mind that are singing _it’d be so easy! So easy, Lance!_

He releases his ears, pushes himself off the piano stool to march over to Keith’s violin where he definitively slams the case shut.

“Lance?”

The pianist whips around in double time. Keith is stood in the doorway, an expression of utter perturbation on his face.

“What are you doing?”

Lance snatches his hands away from the violin case as if he’s been scalded.

“I-”

Lance is a chatterbox. He flirts easily, he could charm the socks off any old biddy. He’s good with words.

Words fail him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the suit that Lance wears.](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB15tKDifNNTKJjSspcq6z4KVXaI/2017-Navy-Blue-Velvet-Fashion-Men-Suits-Velvet-Blazer-Custom-Made-Groomsman-Wedding-Party-Prom-Dress.jpg)  
> [and this is the dress that Allura wears, but in oyster](http://unelibanaiseaparis.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/07/061.jpg)  
>  I also wanna say massive thanks to Moose and Cani for beta reading this fic and generally putting up with my whiny ass, thanks to wittyy-name for giving me the advice to push through. And a shoutout to the sufferpit for being massively supportive, I can't say how much you all mean to me <33
> 
> Come scream at me!
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://zizzani.tumblr.com/)  
> [My Art Tumblr](http://dreamwips.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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